Arcanium
by CrashingPetals
Summary: Onmund is not an adventurer. He likes his research. He doesn't like traipsing through the wilderness or delving into dark ruins. He likes his magic and his studies. He doesn't enjoy campfire banter with the arrogant woman who is more legend than truth. At least, he doesn't think he does. Until, suddenly, he begins falling rather hard for one Dragonborn extraordinaire. Onmund/F!DB
1. Frostbite

**A/N: Welcome to the first chapter of Arcanium! This will be an Onmund/F!DB story. In my humble opinion, there's a sad lack of Onmund fanfiction out there, so I think it's only right to do what I can to change that! If you're new to my writing, feel free to check out my other Skyrim story, Legerdemain, which is focused around Quintus Navale and my Dragonborn.** **The story will be updated 2-3 times a week, since they're pretty short chapters.**

 **Please leave a review if you feel inclined. I'm curious to know what people think of my Dragonborn as we get into the story.**

 _Full Summary: Rannve hated mages. They were all talk. She preferred action. Of course, when her quest takes her to the College of Winterhold, to a librarian who distrusts her and a mage apprentice who seems to worship the ground she walks on, her perspective begins to change._

 _Onmund isn't a standard mage, after all. In fact, he seems to surpass every single standard that Rannve has ever encountered. Falling for him is surprisingly easy, at least when she realizes that she actually doesn't mind his tendency for admiring her as much as she'd thought._

 _As for him, well. He can't really be blamed for just a little bit of hero-worship, can he? She is, after all, the Dragonborn extraordinaire._

* * *

 **Arcanium**

 **Chapter One | Frostbite**

It was a particularly snowy day when he first saw her. It was snowing hard and had been all through the morning classes. In Winterhold it snowed nearly every day and so this wasn't really surprising, but everyone liked to complain about it anyhow. Onmund was much too busy to let a little snow put him off however, and that was why he happened to be in the library at precisely the right time.

He was leafing through a book on wards. Tolfdir had begun to teach them the basics of such spells and had assigned homework on the matter, and so Onmund was busily reading and theorizing on the intricacies of restoration casting, the effects it had on the body, and the different areas of the mind used to properly draw forth the energy, and so on and so forth. He was so busy in fact that he hardly even noticed the woman who walked rather loudly into the silent Arcanaeum. She certainly made him notice her, though, when she stepped right up to Urag gro-Shub and said none too quietly, "Afternoon. I was told you could give me information regarding something of a delicate matter."

Onmund glanced over from his chair. He was half buried in books and papers, his fingers stained and inky, and was already quite tired from all this abhorrent reading. But his mind was still sharp enough to realize when something required attention. And while this situation might not require _his_ said attention, he was all too willing to give it anyhow. It was certainly not every day, after all, that the rather ostentatious Head Librarian was spoken to in such a blunt manner. Curious, Onmund thought, and very amusing indeed to watch the Orc frown and stumble up, mouth flapping at the audacity of the sudden meeting.

After a moment of this, Urag scowled a particularly frightful scowl (all Orcs had quite vicious looking ones – it was the fangs most likely) and growled, "Oh really? I don't know you, and I don't give my books away to anyone who isn't a student or faculty member, so scram."

Onmund couldn't see the Nord woman's face, but he certainly did notice the slight hardening of her shoulders. Urag noticed too, and his scowl turned even more annoyed. The library rang with deadened silence as he waited for a fight of some kind to break out. It wouldn't be the first time to happen, what with their stubborn librarian, and it seemed only reasonable for words to get heavier, angrier…except that it didn't happen.

Instead, the woman just huffed and rolled her eyes, "Then perhaps you'd be interested to know that I _am_ a student here. Just joined today. Now I'd appreciate you being a little more helpful, Orc."

The scowl deepened into a glower that easily would have sent Onmund running had it been directed at him, but the woman remained surprisingly firm in her stance. He really wished he could have seen her face. As it was, he was only allowed the glimpse of her back and couldn't see what Urag saw. A frightening expression no doubt had taken a hold of her features, for he saw the Orc hesitate, something that had never before happened. Very curious indeed.

Somehow she must have known that the only way to get an Orc to do something was to prove that you weren't a total milkdrinker, and this woman certainly was nothing of the kind, if the wicked gleam of her sword had anything to say on the matter. He rarely saw mages who used actual weapons. Then again, he rarely saw a Nord who _didn't_. He was an exception to his race, to be sure.

Urag grumbled, glared, and muttered, "What do you need then? I'm busy if you hadn't noticed, and I don't need any more bumbling Nords filling up my library." A rather edged looked was sent in Onmund's direction and he bit his tongue, turning to bury his face back into the dusty old tome he was half-skimming. He saw the Nord woman turn, glance at him, and then raise an eyebrow as if she was surprised to see him there. Perhaps she hadn't noticed him upon her entrance, hasty as it was. And, he thought with a slight grimace, she was probably a little taken off guard at the mention of a Nord studying at the College, for such things were rather hard to come by these days. Mages were not looked upon very highly, and Nord mages were looked upon even worse.

"Hmmm," the woman merely said, not taking any further notice of him. The moment she turned back, Onmund sagged with relief and sighed, glancing back up to continue watching the exchange. He was glad indeed that Urag seemed to have turned his attention elsewhere too. He was uncomfortable being noticed, especially by the fearsome librarion.

"I need information on the Elder Scrolls. It's extremely important," she said, crossing her arms in an intimidating fashion. Orcs were not so easily frightened though, and Urag merely raised his eyebrows and demanded fiercely, "What could a Nord want with an Elder Scroll?! You aren't a conjurer of dark things are you? We already have one of those, we don't need another."

The woman sighed as if she was speaking to a child and said, "If you must know, I need one to travel back in time to learn a dragon Shout that will help me defeat the World Eater, Alduin."

Urag stared for a brief moment, then chuckled. Then his chuckle turned into a very fierce laugh, then into one of those laughs that made your belly ache. And in the midst of his laughter, the snarky Librarian gasped, "That's…that's good…now tell me the one about the talking sweetroll…"

The woman sighed again. Onmund stared. (He had never before seen Urag laugh and it was a frightful sight, and it rather reminded him of his family's farm where sometimes one of the sheep got loose and became a wolf's midnight snack.) And – what was this about Alduin? Onmund was a Nord, though perhaps not the most conventional of sorts, and he had grown up to the stories about dragons. He knew, then, that if this woman was going to defeat Alduin, then that meant she was the Dragonborn, and that was rather amazing.

"Then you don't believe I am the Dragonborn?" the woman asked, and shrugged, "I'm not surprised. There are many ignorant fools such as yourself who have never even seen a _dragon_ , let alone one born into human skin. I'll ask one more time and before I start getting angry, Orc. Will you give me information on the Elder Scrolls?"

Now, Urag was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a way, and he did not like seeing all his hard earned respect draining away so quickly. His job happened to be extremely important. Not just anyone could keep this library as clean as it was, _and_ protect all the books from bumbling apprentices. And so Urag was not amused any longer, and his laughter died down quickly upon hearing her call him an 'ignorant fool'. He did not appreciate that, not at all.

"Look, Nord," he growled, completely unwilling to bend to her will. Whether she really was the Dragonborn or not, it mattered little to him. Orcs cared nothing for the legends of other races, and he was growing angry at having to deal with this self-proclaimed hero. He had work to do after all, papers to file and books to order, and he didn't have the time to deal with annoying Nord women. He frowned mightily and said, "When you can prove that you're a student here, I'll assist you in your research. For all I know, you're only masquerading as one in order to steal my books – "

"Suspicious old fool!" the Nord woman muttered, turning away without listening to the rest of Urag's words. And the moment she turned, Onmund couldn't look away from her, for he had never seen such a small, _petit_ Nord woman, and one so unusually pretty either. He looked bashfully away when she stormed past, but his eyes quickly flickered back to her at the first opportunity, and he stared at her for as long as he was allowed, until she disappeared from the Arcanaeum altogether. Then Onmund turned his eyes to Urag, curiously wondering how the old Orc was holding up after such a tiring argument.

As usual, it seemed as if the Orc was entirely unfazed by everything that just happened, but Onmund knew better. He could see the telltale sign of his anger flashing in those dark eyes, and he noted with a shiver how the librarian's scowl had deepened, his fangs more pronounced.

And then Urag turned those angry eyes to Onmund, and the poor Nord jumped in fright when the Orc barked, "Get back to your reading!" But Onmund didn't think he could bring himself to return to doing such a boring task after what had just occured, and he stood up, quickly gathered his supplies, and fled from the library before the librarian could yell at him any more.

If it was true – if that woman hadn't been making it all up – then he had just met the Dragonborn herself! He flew into the cold, searching for where the woman had gone to, for he really wanted to know if she was staying or leaving. And if she was leaving he would really like to say something to her, though he wasn't sure what, only that he rather liked the thought of thanking her in some small way for everything she's done and everything she was going to do.

But she was nowhere to be found, and with a defeated sigh Onmund made his way across the courtyard to his room, where he would rest until his final class for the day and hope he had not merely dreamed it all up in his silly, idealistic mind.


	2. Lesser Ward

**Chapter Two | Lesser Ward**

* * *

By the time Onmund was getting ready for his evening class, the college was abuzz with excitement. He didn't realize, at first, what had made everyone so restless. He took his time getting ready for class, sleepy from the nap he had taken, and not even the blistering cold of the courtyard could wake him up. No, it wasn't until he reached the Hall of the Elements and had sauntered over to where J'zargo and Brelyna were standing that he realized what was going on.

His two friends were whispering heatedly by one of the pillars as they waited for Tolfdir to arrive and begin the lecture. Brelyna glanced up at Onmund, cheeks flushing slightly at the sight of him, though he hardly noticed. He was only concerned with what had captured their attention in such a grand way.

"What's going on?" Onmund asked, still very tired from his nap. He noticed J'zargo glance at something behind him and raised an eyebrow quizzically. "…J'zargo?"

The Khajiit only hissed, "We've heard that the Dragonborn has come to study at the college!" His whisper was loud, but not loud enough to carry across the massive room, to where the figure of a Nord woman was strewn rather lazily on one of the benches, half immersed in the shadows of the pillars. The Khajiit seemed to be the only one who noticed her, though she didn't seem to be paying them any mind.

Onmund's encounter in the library jumped into his mind and his eyes widened, now completely awake. "I know!" he whispered furtively, "I saw her today – in the library. She was looking for an Elder Scroll!"

He thought in the back of his mind that perhaps he shouldn't speak so freely of what he had heard. Perhaps it was supposed to be a secret or some such thing…but he couldn't possibly hold his tongue now. Not when all these rumors were making his head spin. It was all so exciting! (The last exciting thing that happened in Winterhold was the Great Collapse, though that was surely considered more traumatic than pleasant by any measure, and in any case, that was centuries ago.)

Brelyna frowned and murmured, "An Elder Scroll? Why on earth would she want one of those?"

But Onmund couldn't answer, which was really just as well, because at that moment Tolfdir stepped into the massive room and approached the students.

"Good evening everyone!" he greeted, going to stand on one of the steps as he addressed the small class. There were other students at the College, but only the three of them were on that particular track, and most preferred to take more exciting classes if they could help it. Wards were really not all that exciting, especially when one had never been in a battle before and hardly knew how important they could be.

"Ah…" Toldfir glanced around as though searching for something. He appeared to find it a moment later, and chuckled, "Come, my dear. We don't want to start without you." And out of the shadows stepped a rather bored looking woman. A Nord woman. And Onmund bit his tongue hard in his shock, for he hadn't thought he would see her again so soon, or even again.

Whispers erupted around the room but the woman didn't even seem to notice. Perhaps she was used to people whispering about her, Onmund thought, or perhaps she just really didn't care. He doubted _he_ could maintain such a blasé, careless look had he been in her place. He was blushing just _thinking_ of all that attention.

Tolfdir cleared his throat and the whispering stopped. There was a streak of indecency in Tolfdir's gaze as he peered down at the apprentices and it came through in his voice when he said, "I'm sure by now you're all aware of who our new student is. However, I don't believe I have to remind you all that she is a normal woman all the same. Please welcome her and be kind."

Onmund hardly thought that the Dragonborn could be described as being a normal woman, but he merely nodded along with his classmates. The Dragonborn stepped forward and took her place with the other students, though he noticed that she stayed a little removed from them, preferring to keep several extra feet between her and the group. He noticed several other things about her as well. She refused to wear the standard College robes and instead wore the armor he had seen her in earlier. It was a sinister looking set of dark steel, and at her hip was the same lethal looking sword. He chanced a glance at her face and silently admired the sharp edges of her cheekbones and her tapered chin. She looked almost Altmer in appearance, though she was quite clearly a Nord, and far too short to have Mer blood. Indeed she was smaller than any other Nord he had seen, with petit shoulders and elfin eyes that darted to and fro restlessly…and then landed directly on his own.

He would have squeaked had his mouth been open, but luckily he only ended up biting his tongue again and wincing as his mouth filled with the taste of blood. Her eyes studied him briefly, probably wondering why he'd been staring at her, and if she remembered him from before he couldn't tell. After a moment in which Onmund's skin crawled beneath her heavy, penetrable silver gaze, she turned back to Tolfdir with that blasé look, as if she hardly thought him worth her time. Well, he morosely decided, he wasn't. He could hardly even call himself a mage. He hated studying.

After that he forced his thoughts to Tolfdir, who had begun to explain what a ward was and why they were important out in the field. "So, as I was saying," Tolfdir continued, "Magic is, by its very nature, volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you." He would have kept speaking, but Brelyna spoke up impatiently, and Onmund sighed. She always wanted to throw herself into these things without thought.

"Sir, I think we all understand that fairly well. We wouldn't be here if we couldn't control magic!" she exclaimed, and Tolfdir frowned at her.

"Of course my dear, you all possess some inherent natural ability. What I'm talking about is true control, mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, of practice and study."

The Dragonborn shifted, crossed her arms, and turned to glance at the other students shrewdly, as if she didn't understand why they were making such a big deal out of listening to a lecture. That's what students did, wasn't it? But apparently these students weren't normal. Figures that she'd be stuck with impatient fools.

"Then what are we waiting for?" J'zargo said, narrowing his eyes, "Let's get started."

Tolfdir sighed and quickly said, "Please, please! This is exactly what I'm talking about. Eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable."

It was clear that Tolfdir wasn't planning on bending to the whims of his students. Brelyna elbowed Onmund furtively, giving him a look that clearly demanded for his assistance in the matter. He frowned at her, not terribly interested in going against his professor, but when J'zargo turned to give him that narrowed look, Onmund caved. Peer pressure was a dreadfully powerful thing, especially when one was the only Nord mage north of Whiterun with only two friends.

Onmund took a deep breath and insisted, "But you've got no idea what any of us are capable of. Why not give us a chance to show you what we can do?"

There, he said it. Brelyna looked pleased, but Onmund was far from relieved. But he felt those eyes upon him again, and they were heavier than before. Judgmental, perhaps? Or pleased that they were skipping the boring lecture? She had seemed so impatient in the library, so unwilling to remain there for longer than she had to. Surely she must be happy?

But that was not the case, it seemed. Because then Tolfdir turned to the Dragonborn and asked, "You've been quiet so far, Dragonborn. What do you think we should do?" her response was the very opposite of what he had been expecting.

The woman shrugged carelessly, her eyes turning to glance out the stained glass window as if she'd barely heard the old mage. It was clear that she did, though, when in a strong voice she said, "Magic should be used cautiously, not rushed into without thought or care." And then her eyes sliced through the air and landed on Brelyna's, the first who had voiced her impatience, and Onmund felt the Dark Elf stiffen a little beneath the heavy stare. At the same time, he knew that Brelyna's stubbornness would prove to be difficult to ignore, and that the Dragonborn had just made an enemy of sorts in the elf.

Tolfdir at least looked pleased, though he also seemed to take care in his other student's opinions. "I'm glad you agree," he told the Nord, and gestured to the symbol in the center of the floor. "Perhaps we can do something practical if we take the necessary precautions. Would you be willing to demonstrate, my dear?"

The Dragonborn shrugged and stepped up to the circle.

"What do I do?" she wondered, leaning on one hip and looking almost like a lazy cat as she stood there. If not for the sword at her side, Onmund might have thought that she lived her life in total peace and had no use for destructive habits whatsoever.

As Tolfdir rolled up his sleeves, he explained, "You're going to cast a ward spell, and I'm going to send a firebolt at you." Then he paused and asked, "Do you know a good spell to use?"

The Dragonborn blinked and then nodded, "I know one. Whenever you're ready, old man." Onmund could have laughed aloud at that, especially when Tolfdir frowned indignantly at her.

" _Hmph,"_ Tolfdir muttered, then readied his hands. They began to glow a faint orange color, the telltale sign that a fire spell was about to be summoned. The Nord woman raised her hands too, which glowed with a pale bluish light attributed to wards, and then she brought the light further from her hands until it became a wall before her. It was done so easily that Onmund felt a prickle of jealousy inside him, for it had taken him nearly two months of intense practice to expand his ward to that degree, and it still took him several minutes to widen it that far. But hers was fast and light, Onmund thought as he studied the spell, and powerful enough to successfully block the fire that Tolfdir soon threw at her.

"Well done!" Tolfdir exclaimed happily, apparently having forgotten that she'd called him an old man before. His excitement seemed to supersede his previous annoyance, and he nodded, "That was a marvelous demonstration. I can tell that you already have deep magical stores. A little practice will make you even better." More jealousy. Tolfdir never complimented him like that, Onmund thought. Just because she was the Dragonborn, she automatically got special treatment! He could tell that his classmates agreed, for they were both stiff and hid their annoyance very poorly, especially Brelyna.

The Dragonborn raised an eyebrow and shrugged, "What's next then?" Apparently she didn't care much for the compliments either, which Onmund thought very strange. She was probably already so used to getting them, a sinister part of his mind hissed, and he frowned.

Tolfdir smiled, "Next is a very special field trip I've been planning, to a ruin called Sarthaal. There is an expedition going on right now that I want you all to be a part of. It will be very good for your learning, and exciting too! I'm sure none of you have ever entered a Nord burial tomb before, have you?" At this, Tolfdir glanced at the Dragonborn and chuckled, as if reminding himself that one of them had probably entered such a place. The old mage waved his hand and said, "Meet me here tomorrow morning, and dress warmly! We'll have to walk a ways in order to get there." And, having evidently said everything that needed to be said, Tolfdir nodded and began walking out of the Hall of Elements.

Brelyna and J'zargo immediately followed as well, clearly uninterested in staying around to actually introduce themselves to the legendary and seemingly arrogant Dragonborn. Onmund was the only one who hesitated, though when Brelyna cast him a sharp look he followed too. He was unsure what to do with himself around someone so famous and so he resorted to his more private side, clearing his throat and merely giving the Dragonborn a short nod before following after his classmates. And though he didn't look back to see, the Dragonborn watched him walk away with a curious look, as if she was wondering just what kind of Nord he was, who could so easily cast away the Nordic hero as though she was as uninteresting as the walls around them. With a grunt the woman turned to the windows and looked out of them, and in her disinterest she did not notice that Onmund had, in fact, glanced back at her, his own curiosity only slightly dampened.

It was not exactly a good first lesson, but things would soon change very quickly for the two of them, for fate had a hand in their meeting and would continue to handle their lives from then onward.


	3. Flames

**A/N: So have you guys ever noticed the fact that Onmund has a serious underbite thing going on in his jaw? Because I was just stalking him for research (lol!) and his profile is really shocking. On that note, please enjoy this chapter, in which Onmund begins to show a bad case of hero-worship for our heroine. :D**

* * *

 **Chapter Three | Flames**

Rannve didn't much like mages. They were too secretive and too scholarly. They liked to hide behind their books and research and allow the world to continue on without them. And, worst of all, they liked to believe themselves to be important, and that their research would 'change the very fates of time'. Horse shit.

However that didn't mean they didn't have their purposes, and she clearly needed to allow them their fantasies if she wanted to get what she'd come for. Her journey to the College had been filled with her annoyed mutterings, and once she'd finally gotten there her annoyance had only grown worse. That damned Head Librarian wouldn't let her go anywhere near his books unless she somehow proved to him that she had no intention of lighting them on fire with a wayward spell. As if. Though the idea certainly did sound appealing, even _she_ wasn't that disrespectful. She pushed her boundaries whenever she could, but she'd never do _that_. (Setting the librarian in question on fire didn't sound so terrible though.)

Mirabelle Ervine had given her a lengthy tour that afternoon, though it was hardly needed. Rannve doubted she could have gotten lost in that tiny College even if she tried. She had a keen sense of direction and besides, there were only three major buildings. She had suffered through the tour anyway, tried her best to listen to the Breton without snapping at her to hurry up, and nearly sighed in relief when they finally reached the room she'd be staying at. And then of course Mirabelle had invited her to the first lecture in the Hall of the Elements, and Rannve had gone feeling very annoyed about the whole day, because she couldn't just say no. She had to prove to that insufferable Orc that she was a student here. And students…learned things, didn't they?

She had no interest in learning things here. She only came for information on the Elder Scrolls, nothing more, and she planned to leave the moment she got what she came for. She had no place among those scholarly know-it-alls, and she didn't want one. And as for delving into yet another draugr infested ruin…well, while that didn't sound overly bad, the thought of having to be around those impatient apprentices put her off. They had no idea what magic truly was, she thought. She knew all too well how long it took to master something, and being impatient about it would get you nowhere. Rannve was not a mage, but she imagined that mastering spells took just as long. All that intense mental concentration was what made most mages go crossed eyed before their time, after all. In her opinion at least.

With a sigh, Rannve packed her bag. She'd spent the evening before getting used to her new chamber, though there was one particular aspect of it that she wasn't a fan of, which was that there was no freaking door. What on earth was that all about anyway? Was privacy not considered important this far up north?

She grumbled to herself with a frown, glanced out the tall window near her bed, and saw that it was perhaps an hour after dawn. She'd been up before dawn, having long since grown used to waking up with the sun, and had already been to breakfast and had a bath to boot. But the rest of the hall was silent, and the other apprentices were still fast asleep in their beds. Rannve wasn't very surprised by this but it still made her annoyed, because as far as she was concerned, they were supposed to be meeting Tolfdir at the ruins very soon. Or so she hoped, though the old mage hadn't given them a set time.

Rannve didn't care. She'd long since dressed herself in a set of leather armor and atop that she threw on a heavy fur cloak. She even strung on her bow and her arrows, for she would not venture into a draugr ruin unprepared, even if it _was_ claimed to be perfectly safe. The draugr didn't like staying dead. There were probably some still walking around deeper in and she wanted to be prepared. And with that, she grabbed her pack and headed out into the cold, hoping that she wouldn't have to wait for very long.

She did. It took her about thirty minutes to trek up to Saarthal, only to find that the door was locked. She briefly considered changing that little fact (it was a fairly simple lock, easy enough to pick), but decided against it. She wanted to prove that she was student, not a thief, and the Dragonborn should at least keep _some_ semblance of morals about her.

In any case, she waited for nearly two hours for the stragglers to come. When they did, they found her sitting precariously atop an outcrop of stone, one leg hanging toward the ground, using a nearby barrel for target practice. The wood was littered with holes from where her arrows had pierced it, and there was about a dozen of the gleaming ebony shafts poking from the wood by the time Onmund arrived. He had never seen an archer with such prowess and, having lacked the aptitude for such a weapon himself, and watched her in admiration. He felt rather stuck between his awe of her being the Dragonborn and his disdain for her arrogance, but at that moment he hardly felt any disdain at all. His companions of course felt differently.

Upon seeing the strange Nord woman with an obvious skill in archery, Brelyna scoffed and rolled her eyes. J'zargo made no comment, clearly unconcerned about anything but entering the ruin and proving himself in some way to Tolfdir. They were all obviously concerned about that, Onmund included, though the Dragornborn certainly wasn't and that was obvious too. She only looked bored to be there, though Onmund noted that each time her gaze skimmed over the ancient doors, her eyes gleamed. It was rather strange, he thought. He personally felt wrong about going into his ancestor's resting place and disturbing it, but she merely looked like it was completely normal and even exciting.

Tolfdir was last to arrive. He made no comment on Rannve's archery practice and merely stepped up to the door. It was cold outside, and he quickly procured the key and entered, waiting for the apprentices to come in behind him before he shut the door tight. Immediately, Brelyna sighed in relief, for she out of all of them was the most unaccustomed to the cold.

"Right, well welcome everyone," Tolfdir said, rubbing his hands over his arms and brushing snow from his hair. He glanced at them all and smiled, "I hope you weren't waiting long." Rannve held her tongue on that matter, mostly blaming herself for coming as early as she did. She didn't mind sitting outside though, even if it was cold. She had grown used to it.

"Follow me," their professor said and began walking down the pathway, which immediately opened up into a large cavern. Rannve quickly followed after him, eager to see more of the ruins, and the others dragged their feet behind.

"This is interesting," they heard Rannve mutter to Tolfdir, "I've never seen a ruin so large before. How long has the College been excavating it?" The question was innocent enough, but Onmund could hear the fascination in her words, and also the familiarity. She'd definitely been in one of these crypts before then. It was painfully apparent and he wasn't entirely sure what to think of it.

But Tolfdir merely smiled and explained, "About a year, though we're only just breaking ground now. Come, I'll show you all where the main research is done." And they walked down across the cavern, over the rickety pathways that dropped down into the darkness. It was a little unsettling, to be honest.

Rannve was interested though. She stepped lightly over the shaky boards, glancing down into the perilous shadows that stretched out beneath them, unafraid. She'd never seen a burial chamber like this one, and wondered how large it was and what had collapsed it to such a degree. That was where her fascination began and ended, because the only other room that had been excavated was quite small and seemed like a dead end.

"Arniel, how goes the research?" Tolfdir called, and they all turned to a weathered looking man hovering near an enchanting table, who jumped upon hearing the words. He clearly hadn't heard them come in, and the glower on his face was proof enough of his upset surprise.

" _Humph,"_ he muttered, turning back to his work. There was a journal propped up atop the enchanting table that he was jotting things down in with a long feather quill. He hardly bothered looking up as he said, "How goes it? Slow, cold, and a dozen other things you probably don't want to hear." Even so, he started mumbling just what they were, and Rannve smiled in amusement.

Tolfdir sent them all a resigned look before turning back. As they began to discuss the field trip and what the apprentices might do, Rannve took a moment to look around the small room. There was no sign of any coffins or draugr. No door that she could see either, which she knew wasn't right. There was always a door. Perhaps it was simply hidden expertly well, and blended in with the stone around it, or enchanted to be invisible? Her eyes swept critically over the rock, looking for a purchase in it, but found nothing.

And then suddenly her attention was drawn away, far from the rock walls and right into the crystal blue eyes of the Nord apprentice, who had approached her to awkwardly mumble, "Ahh…perhaps we should introduce ourselves…?" For, he reasoned, if they were to be working together now she should at least know their names, even if Brelyna and J'zargo were uninterested in giving theirs.

The Dragonborn only stared in surprise, clearly not expecting the friendly gesture, and frowned in confusion. The look hardly deterred Onmund from his next words, though he very nearly hesitated as he said, "I'm Onmund. And this is Brelyna and J'zargo." And that's where his words died. He wanted to say something more, perhaps something charming or impressive, but he simply could not. Saying only that much to the Dragonborn was more than he could have ever dreamed.

She nodded slowly, her eyes drifting over each person as their name was revealed. He knew his friends weren't very pleased at his handing out their names, but there was nothing for it. Whether she was arrogant or not, she was still the Dragonborn, and Onmund decided that perhaps she had the right to be arrogant and disrespectful. She had done some pretty impressive deeds after all, if the stories of her were true.

She started to introduce herself, as well. "I am – "

"The Dragonborn," Onmund hurried to say, then blushed, realizing that she probably didn't like being cut off, and murmured, "…Yes, we know."

Instead of being angry with him however, she merely laughed. He stared as she did, surprised that her reaction was so simple and innocent. In a sarcastic voice she said, "I was going to tell you my name. Do you wish to hear it or not?"

Onmund merely cleared his throat, "Erm…yes, your name then." He cringed at the awkward cadence of his voice, but she merely blinked, unconcerned. He was beginning to suspect that there were quite a lot of things she was unconcerned with.

"It is Rannve, and it's nice to meet you, Onmund," she said, and then nodded politely at the other two, who hadn't contributed at all to the conversation and probably wouldn't at this point. Onmund didn't care. All he cared about was the fact that the Dragonborn had said his name in that powerful voice, and he shivered at the sound of it on her tongue.

"Yes…nice to meet you as well," he told her after the shivers stopped erupting over his skin. He would've liked to say more – after all, this was the _Dragonborn!_ – but then Tolfdir's voice rose up above their conversation as he said, "Gather round, now, and I'll give you all something to do."

Rannve turned to the mage without another glance at Onmund, as if she completely forgot about him. He awkwardly shifted at this, unsure if he felt resigned or annoyed that she didn't seem to give him the time of day, and Brelyna elbowed him as if to say 'I told you so, you damned fool'.

He shot her a dirty look and turned to Tolfdir, who was assigning them things to do from a list he had compiled. They were all very simple things, such as searching for artifacts and other objects that would need to be researched. Onmund was paired up with J'zargo to go and clean up a room nearby, where scrap metal and other useless things had accumulated. The task was more of a glorified clean-up than anything important, and therefore Onmund felt very jealous when Rannve was told to go search for enchanted golden rings. They were artifacts that a previous apprentice had unwittingly scattered several days before, and it sounded much more interesting than cleaning up garbage.

However, Rannve seemed to think that it was the most boring thing ever. She frowned and looked like she wanted to complain, but remained silent. And though Onmund thought she really ought to be a little more pleased with her fortune ( _she_ didn't have to pick up scrap metal, after all), he did sort of understand where she was coming from. She was the Dragonborn, after all. She had fought and killed dragons singlehandedly, delved into all sorts of dangerous places and came out alive. Picking up a few rings was probably extremely tedious in comparison to what she was used to doing on a daily basis.

Even so, Onmund learned quite a few things about her as she searched for them. He happened to be a very observant Nord – a very untypical trait. Then again, he was very unique for his race. Where most Nords favored weapons, he favored magic. Where most were loud and brash and blunt, he was quiet and reserved and thoughtful. And so he spent the hour observing the Dragonborn as he loaded a rickety cart with odd bits of paper and other useless things to be thrown away, and learned a number of things in the process.

First was that she was impatient and didn't take her job very seriously. She kicked around, bored, and didn't tire herself out as she searched for the rings. She just walked back and forth and occasionally bent down to retrieve a gleaming golden artifact from the dust, then started circling again.

Second was the fact that she had a really strange idea of what was exciting. After a while, she stumbled upon a necklace. Onmund didn't see her at this point, but he certainly heard the racket when she ended up getting herself trapped, necklace dangling from her fingers. He rather thought the entire ruin was collapsing down around them for a moment, and feared for his life – but then Tolfdir quieted them all down and they rushed to find Rannve, who had an excited gleam in her eye as she leaned against the bars that had unwittingly caged her.

She looked right at home behind those bars, as if it was not so very surprising to get capatured in such a way every now and again. She didn't seem at all concerned with her current predicament. When Tolfdir approached, Rannve eagerly told him, "I finally found something interesting. Look at this." She held out the necklace, apparently indifferent to the fact that she was essentially trapped. She didn't appear to care at all, actually. If he'd been in her place, Onmund would have been freaking out.

"Oh my," Tolfdir exclaimed in dismay, eyeing the bars and hardly sparing the necklace a second glance. "This is dreadful – how did this happen?"

Rannve twisted her mouth to the side and shrugged with a bored sigh. Apparently Tolfdir wasn't as interested in the necklace as she was. For a mage, he wasn't very inquisitive, she thought dryly.

"Oh you know, just the obvious wire traps that these ruins are always full of. I knew there must've been one _somewhere."_ She brought the necklace close and inspected it idly.

Onmund gaped at her. If there had been any question as to whether she frequented draugr ruins before, there wasn't one now. It was clear that she happened upon these more often than not, and was apparently crazy enough to delve into them on numerous occasions. She spoke of the traps as if she was well acquainted with them. That must've been why she was pacing back and forth, taking her time searching for the rings, Onmund realized – it was because she was actually searching for a hidden door or some such thing. And when she finally found one, she had tripped the wires on purpose, deliberately getting herself trapped so as to make progress in this ruin…or perhaps it was because she was just that crazy.

He'd heard plenty of stories of the Last Dragonborn. In fact, he was just a tiny bit obsessed with scrounging up the latest news of her exploits. The other apprentices didn't seem to understand his fascination, so he usually kept it to himself, but he didn't think it was so strange. He was a Nord, after all, and the Dragonborn was the prophesized Nordic hero! He'd always liked a good story. Besides, the fact that she was a warrior maiden certainly helped. He had his fair share of boyish daydreams about her. Her exhilarating adventures made for an excellent backdrop.

Tolfdir pursed his lips in concern. He shook the bars a little, but to no avail. They were solidly made, and it wouldn't be so simple to break them. As he did this, Rannve raised an eyebrow and wondered, "What on earth are you doing, Tolfdir?" As if the thought of someone rescuing her made her blanch. What a typical, arrogant thing to think, Onmund thought dryly.

Tolfdir barked out an indignant sound and said, "You will call me 'professor', or 'master', Rannve. You may be the Dragonborn, but you're still my apprentice. And what do you think I'm doing?"

His words appeared to pass right over her head. Rannve tilted her chin to the side and caught Tolfdir's eye, looking at him carefully before slowly saying, "There is not a man alive who could ever be my master, Tolfdir. Don't be ridiculous. And besides, there is only one way to deal with a situation like this – you obviously must reverse everything. Going backwards messes it all up." Her explanation seemed to make Tolfdir a tiny bit annoyed, but it cleared the moment Rannve looped the necklace around her neck.

"What are you doing now?" Onmund blurted, for he saw no reason for her to need the necklace. She didn't want it for herself, did she? It was an artifact and belonged in the College for further study – and besides, it was extremely ugly! For someone as arrogant as herself, he figured that would mean something.

But Rannve merely glanced at him and shrugged, "Freeing myself."

Then she turned, and disappeared into the pillared room with the ancient necklace swinging atop her armor. They couldn't see her from where they were all gathered, but they could hear the telltale sound of a crackling fire spell. It was unmistakable even in its paltriness – a fact that had J'zargo scoffing, for he was one of the best Destruction apprentices. It rather pleased Onmund to find that the great Dragonborn wasn't quite so great at this form of magic, at least according to his Khajiit friend.

Seconds later, the sound of plaster and rock shattering was all that filled the small room, and seconds after that the iron bars began to lower by themselves. They all but rushed forward the moment they were able, Tolfdir at the lead, and gaped at the sight beyond. A tunnel had appeared from seemingly nowhere, curling into the darkness like a snake. Rannve stood at the entrance, hand on her sword hilt, and smirked at them as if she'd known it existed all along.

"Well I'll be!" Tolfdir exclaimed, eyes wide. Arniel, who had joined them upon seeing the iron trap, approached with a look of amazed curiosity on his face. He turned to Rannve and asked incredulously, "How did you know what to do? You could've blown us all up!"

He looked like he wanted to continue – and probably would have, had Rannve not cut in with a bored, "I simply followed the directions, old man." She stooped and picked up a shard of the cracked plaster, then tossed it to him without warning. Ariel barely caught it, so shocked he was at both her idle explanation and her blatant disrespect. (He was _not_ an old man, thank you very much, he was only five-and-forty!)

The inscriptions on the plaster were ones Arniel had come to know quite well, for he had found them months ago and had been desperately trying (and failing) to translate them. The characters were like slashes. Some had dots engraved above the letters. It was a language that had thrown Arniel completely off for he had ever encountered it until the excavation had begun, but Rannve had. It was the dragon tongue, and while she was certainly not fluent in the speech, she knew it well enough by now to recognize some of its words. Fire, for example.

"But this – this is a dead language – " Arniel spluttered angrily, thinking back on the many sleepless nights he'd spent trying to decipher it. Tolfdir pried the plaster shard from his colleague's hands to peer at him as Arniel demanded, "How could you possibly know – "

Once more he was cut off. Rannve, impatient as ever, sighed and told him, "It is not a dead language. It's simply a language that humans do not use." She shrugged and her eyes took on a more serious gleam, "Regardless, from here on things will be very dangerous. I have only seen dragon inscriptions in tombs that house dragon priests – and those are a terrible hassle to kill. I shall go on myself and will come back for you when I've dealt with the danger." If possible, her words made them all even more astounded.

"Dragons?" Tolfdir asked, eyebrows raised. They were all scholars in their own right, and most of them had heard of dragon priests and the history behind them. Onmund had too, for he had been raised by the stories of dragons and all that came with them. But to think that he was standing in the entryway to a highly dangerous tomb that house a dragon priest (of all things!) made him want to turn and run back the way he'd come. He never claimed to be brave. At least not this sort of brave.

"Surely you can't be serious," Arniel grumbled, looking less angry and more defeated with every passing moment. He couldn't be fully angry at her when she had been able to so easily bypass their standstill in this ruin. They'd been searching for weeks, looking for another path and not finding one. She hadn't been there for an hour before she was able to solve the puzzle that even the most educated mages couldn't understand.

Rannve chuckled dryly and said, "If you insist on accompanying me, I won't argue. Just know that at the end of this ruin lies one of the most powerful creatures in existence, and I won't be responsible for your deaths." As she spoke, she unclasped her bow from its place on her back and restrung the weapon. She glanced over at them and tilted her head, waiting.

It was Brelyna, surprisingly, who spoke up. What wasn't surprising (at least to Onmund) was the manner of her words. "What makes you think you'll be capable of killing one of the most 'powerful creatures in existence'?" she wondered with a scoff, twisting Rannve's words. J'zargo leaned forward to hear the answer, and Onmund merely sighed.

Rannve sighed too. It almost seemed like she was getting tired of dealing with them, like she thought they were children or something. Brelyna clearly didn't appreciate it, but perhaps that was the whole reason for Rannve's attitude. She must have known that the apprentices didn't think much of her.

"Hmm…let me see," Rannve murmured, tilting her head back to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Krosis, Morokei, Vokun…Volsung…mm, I'm tracking down Rahgot still, but those are the masks I've already acquired. I'm a collector, you see," she said with just the hint of a smirk on her face. It took Brelyna, who wasn't at all proficient in Nordic legends, several moments to grasp the meaning of Rannve's words.

"Y-You mean you've already killed a dragon priest?! Four of them?!" Brelyna demanded. Onmund felt his admiration for this unlikely Dragonborn skyrocket, and he stared at her with mooning eyes. Oh she was amazing. Even Brelyna seemed to think so, for a few seconds at least.

Rannve didn't seem to think it was all that impressive. She looked more bored than impressed. Perhaps her own deeds didn't excite her so much, because she just seemed to think that killing dragon priests was a natural part of her soul-occupation.

"Well, it's part of my job. Rid the world of dragons…etcetera etcetera…" she muttered dully, and turned back to the tunnel. Onmund eyed her, wondering why she sounded so uninterested in her own life. Surely tracking and killing dragons had to be a difficult job, a taxing one. When he really stopped to consider it, he supposed that it wasn't very surprising that Rannve sounded as if it was the worst occupation ever. He frowned and shoved his hands into his pockets, turning his thoughts away for now. There were more important things to consider. Like the fact that she was about to go and destroy yet another dragon priest and could possibly get herself killed…and them along with her.


	4. Magelight

**A/N: Enjoy! Feel free to leave a review if you like the story, I always appreciate feedback :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Four | Magelight**

In the end, only Tolfdir would accompany Rannve into the ruins. It wasn't for lack of eagerness – the Khajiit was more than a little upset that he was barred from entering. The apprentices were just that – apprentices – and Tolfdir wouldn't have their deaths on his conscious if something happened to them. Of course the other two appeared more relieved than anything. The Dunmer did a decent job trying to _look_ upset, kicking her feet around and scowling. But the other Nord (Onmund was it?) didn't even try to look annoyed. He clearly hadn't inherited his ancestor's warrior spirit and the usual Nordic disregard for one's life on a battlefield. Not that Rannve could judge him on that. To be truthful, that very disregard happened to get her into plenty of trouble every now and again.

A draugr infested ruin inhabited with a dragon priest was certainly no place for apprentices who could not defend themselves. It was better they remain behind and let her do the dirty work. She was good at those sorts of things. Even better at working alone. Which was why, when Tolfdir offered himself up to assist her, Rannve felt a smidgen of annoyance. He was only trying to be helpful, she told herself, fighting her ever present impatience. Besides, he was no apprentice. He was a master…of what? Illusion? No…Alteration? How much help would he be able to offer? Rannve didn't know and didn't particularly care. If he wanted to risk his life then so be it. Perhaps he would prove to be useful in the end.

She was very glad at having the foresight to arm herself with her bow, but wished she'd brought a sword too. As it was, Rannve only had two lethal knives that were strapped at her right hip, hilts gleaming sinisterly. Going up against draugr with such small weapons was quite easy once you had the hang of sneaking up on them, but a dragon priest? She hoped Tolfdir had some training in destruction.

She sighed and glanced at the tunnel entrance, layering herself away like so many pieces to a puzzle. It was habit. Turning emotions off, becoming more dragon then human – shutting her senses away and letting her instincts wash over her.

"Are you ready?" she asked Tolfdir after a moment. The old man had spent a minute or so preparing himself too. When she glanced at him, he was armed with a silly little hunting knife that he'd probably gotten from Arniel or one of the apprentices. Rannve eyed it shrewdly. It was probably used to harvest alchemical ingredients. Probably never even been used to kill anything. She sighed again and reached down to tug on a blade hidden in her boot, and handed it to him.

"This will aid you better, old man. Put that dull knife away."

Brelyna stiffened at the remark. The knife was hers then. Rannve wasn't very surprised. She seemed like the type to dabble with alchemy in her spare time. Seemed like the type to forget to maintain a blade, too.

Tolfdir's eyebrows rose high. "I've never seen a knife like this. What enchantment does it hold?" The sharp little thing glistened with magic – and it also didn't surprise Rannve that he was so quick to pick up on that.

"It's made of bone. It will sap the energy out of your opponants. Though I doubt it'll do you much good. You won't get close enough to the Priest to use it." She didn't turn around to watch the morbid horror on Tolfdir's face. He probably had no idea what he was getting himself into. She hadn't, either, when she'd recklessly gone hunting her first dragon priest. It had been more of an accident than anything else, really, but she had learned the hard lesson about the dangers that Nordic burial tombs really possessed.

"Come on, I want this over with before nightfall," she grumbled, because _Talos be damned,_ mages liked to loiter around. She'd be a quarter of the way through the ruin by now. Honestly.

This time, she didn't wait for him. Instead Rannve just stepped forward into the winding tunnel, bow at the ready, arrow loosely strung – and disappeared from sight. It was a tiny bit inspiring for Onmund to watch. What bravery! He could hardly even bring himself to _look_ at the dark tunnel, let alone step inside of it. Even Tolfdir lingered for half a second before following, leaving the apprentices in Arniel's care as he vanished too. And then the waiting game began. A waiting game filled with complaints from Brelyna, go figure.

The Dark Elf picked up her hunting knife with a scowl and brought it to her face, closely looking at the edge of the blade to see if it was indeed dull. It was blunter than a kitchen knife. Humph. She pocketed the blade and muttered, "A bone blade? What in Azura's name is that, anyway? How is bone better than steel?" She mumbled something about ridiculous Nords and stupid heroes and stamped away to the fire. J'zargo followed.

Only Onmund kept watch at the tunnel's entrance – until he began to… _see_ things in the swirling darkness of the winding path. Just subtle shifts of shadows, that was all – probably the result of an overly active mind – but they gave him such a fright that Onmund backed away immediately to sit with his friends, face turned to the tunnel in case some demon hurled out of it. (Not that he would do much good killing such a creature, but at least he'd be able to shout a warning…or something.)

Arniel went to brew some tea. Onmund accepted his, though he would much prefer an ale or something stronger. It was still early but dear Gods he could use something to calm his nerves. They flared up even at the slightest sound, and he found that he was actually worried about the Dragonborn. Er, _Rannve_. Of course he trusted that she could defeat a dragon priest – according to her, she had already done so four times, after all – but what if this particular priest was stronger? What if there was an army of draugrs waiting for her? She'd gone in with a bow and a couple of knives. Was that really _enough?_

"You look worried, Onmund," Z'argo mused, stretched back into a cat-like position on his chair. The Khajiit looked as lazy as ever, and wholly unconcerned about the situation as a whole. Khajiit were really talented when it came to being unconcerned, Onmund dryly thought, and frowned. J'zargo just blinked leisurely and wondered, "You aren't actually worried about the _Dragonborn_ , are you?"

Brelyna turned to look at him, her dark skin even darker in the dim light. Those red eyes of hers glowed dangerously, gleaming at even the mere mention of Rannve. It had only been a day, and the Elf already disliked the Dragonborn. Onmund thought it was petty of her, really, but then again elves were a proud race who didn't take kindly to insult, and Rannve hadn't censored any of the ones that she'd thrown Brelyna's way. In fact, she'd appeared to take some _joy_ in watching the Elf get angry.

All attention was on Onmund. He swallowed, gripped his rough ceramic mug, and said, "You aren't? And Tolfdir went with her. What if something happens to him? Talos – they're going up against a _dragon priest."_ Didn't they have any notion of what that entailed?!

Brelyna sniffed. "For a Nord, you sure worry a lot."

He scowled at her and Arniel cut in with a calm, "Don't worry about Tolfdir. He'll be fine." Onmund grudgingly nodded, but he wondered just how much skill one needed to kill an ancient creature with more power than he could fathom. He just hoped Arniel's words didn't come back to bite him in the ass.

They waited for what seemed like hours. Every jostle of shadow – every rumbling sound made Onmund's skin crawl. He was waiting for something, anything, to jump out of that tunnel. But nothing ever happened. After a while, he thought he felt something shift beneath his feet, some sort of low groaning reverberation. J'zargo's ears twitched, so he doubted it was his imagination at work. Something was going on down there, far below them in the catacombs. A fight perhaps; a death maybe. But it was still ages before something actually happened. They'd gone through several cups of tea before he heard the faint telltale sound of voices and footsteps – and he felt his heart flared with hope.

No draugr would make such sounds. As far as he knew, they didn't speak. And that was what prompted him to stand up and walk a little closer to the tunnel, just in time to see the figure of his teacher stumble through the entrance of it looking a little battered but fine. Arniel, it appeared, had been right.

"Tolfdir!" Arniel exclaimed, rushing forward to catch his colleague by the shoulders. "Here, sit down. What happened in there? For a while there, it sounded like the entire ruin was collapsing."

Tolfdir only chuckled, a sheen in his eyes, and took the chair Onmund had relinquished. He looked very tired, and his robes were a little torn in some areas, but there were no injuries to speak of. The same couldn't be said about the Dragonborn, who strode purposefully out of the tunnel a minute or so later.

Everyone looked up when Rannve appeared. Her footsteps were silent, like a shadow. She looked less exhausted than Tolfdir, but had a few scratches on her cheek and was holding her left arm carefully. A drop of blood trickled down her jaw, and in his wave of euphoria and admiration, Onmund rather thought it looked fearless and lovely.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Tolfdir insisted, brushing away Arniel's concern. He glanced up at Rannve and smiled. She slowly returned it, to everyone's surprise. The smile lit up her silver eyes like a canine's – a dragon's, maybe. It made her look downright wicked.

"You're hurt," Onmund spluttered, casting his eyes over her arm. He was the only one who seemed to notice. Even Rannve hardly bat an eyelash at her injury. She only shrugged, glanced down at it, and then speared him with a gaze that froze him right there to the floor.

"The priest had a tight grip," was her only explanation, and it sounded dry when she said it. She obviously wasn't worried. His admiration was beginning to grow into hero worship. A dangerous thing, that, but something that Rannve was used to. Except it felt different coming from him. Perhaps it was his odd upbringing, his non-Nordic tendencies. He was different, for sure. Cut from the same cloth as her brethren, but from a different corner of it. It was strange to witness.

"Anyway," Rannve said, turning to Tolfdir, "I'll head back to the College and let the Arch Mage know of our findings. I'll see you all for our evening class…if Tolfdir decides he's fit enough to conduct it."

There was a slight humor to her voice then, like she was teasing Tolfdir. The old man, surprisingly, didn't take offense as he normally would have. Perhaps he was too tired to care at that moment, for he just waved her off with a little chuckle that soon turned to a heaving cough. Maybe her words weren't so very far from the truth after all, Onmund mused with amusement.

She turned, but was halted almost immediately by Tolfdir when he called out, "Wait – your knife. Here." He held out the lovely bone dagger and Rannve peered over at it before reaching to grasp the extended hilt.

"It was an honor to wield it," Tolfdir said, to everyone's shock. But Rannve only shrugged knowingly, spun the weapon over her fingers a few times, and then slid it into her belt beside her other gore-splattered knives. She said nothing else as she turned to the grand cavern that would take her up and out of the ruin, but Tolfdir watched her carefully as she went. And when she finally disappeared from view, loping off with all the laziness of a cat, the old man chuckled again.

"Dragon bone…it's almost cliché…" he muttered to himself, but only Onmund, who was close, heard the words. A dragon bone dagger? Such things existed? He sent a wide-eyed look toward the direction the Dragonborn had come, and felt the edge of his mouth curve upward. Little did he know that he was already well past admiration for her, hurtling toward something that had much more depth, more strength than he could imagine in this moment.

Rannve felt very relieved when she finally exited Saarthal. She hadn't wanted the others to know, but her injuries were a little worse than they had seemed. She knew for a fact that her arm was sprained, perhaps in several places, and she had received quite the beating from that priest. He'd been annoying as hell to defeat, and she was extremely glad that Tolfdir had been there to help her out. She didn't want to admit it, but she definitely appreciated his presence.

Of course the entire trip through the ruins had been one difficulty after another. It was really only at the final stage that Tolfdir had come in handy. Though he was a decent fighter and did have extensive knowledge of destruction magic, Rannve had worried the entire time about him. It had gotten in the way of her fighting, that concern, and was part of the reason why she'd collected so many little cuts and wounds.

And _then_ – Talos take her – that weird as hell mage had randomly stopped time just to talk to her about some ridiculous artifact that she was apparently destined to save…or something. The eye of Magnus. What the hell was that, anyway? And why did everyone on this bloody continent need her help – help that everyone else seemed incapable of giving? She had zero interest in getting in the middle of mage business. All she wanted was to do was find a blasted Elder Scroll and then be gone. She couldn't wait to leave this place in the cold, frigid dust.

"Stupid mages," she muttered to herself as she made her way into the College. She drew her cloak closer, blinked through the ever present snow that was falling into the courtyard, and contemplated whether she should go to her rooms first and get cleaned up. She really needed to bandage her arm. But she also just wanted to get this over with and relax, maybe take a bath, maybe go to the local tavern for an ale. So Rannve just grumbled and kept her course, marching to the main hall and throwing the hulking wooden doors open.

She'd never been inside the Arch Mage's quarters before, but she knew where they were. Such a small institution was easily explored, even if she hadn't actually been able to enter the top floor. The door was always locked. She could have picked it if she'd really wanted to – it was a fairly simple lock, very unimaginative. These mages really didn't know anything about thievery. But anyway – she had one reason for being here and one alone, and didn't want to ruin her 'perfect student' image should she get caught breaking into rooms that were obviously barred for a reason. This reason being the privacy of their esteemed Arch Mage.

But, as she strode to the door and tried the handle, she found it mysteriously unlocked. Odd. Almost like the Arch Mage was expecting company today. Expecting her. If she had a coin for every time someone had expected her (whether she showed or not), she'd be had rich as Tiber Septim by now.

Rannve hadn't officially been introduced to the Arch Mage. Strange, that, considering how bloody famous she happened to be. You'd think the leader of this institution would have wanted to meet the Dragonborn, who was for all intents and purposes, his new student. But ah well. She hadn't particularly wanted to meet him either, so it had worked out just fine. She never really liked elves anyhow, but then again, she didn't really like anyone, so…

Regardless, Savos Aren exemplified the typical elvish traits, though Rannve did have to admit that he seemed slightly more subdued than some. (The name Ancano whispered at her at the thought, and she snickered.) He was reading by an impressive alchemy station when she sauntered into the tower.

She glanced around curiously at the large circular room, noting with mild fascination that he even had his own alchemical garden carefully pioneered in the center of the tower. Lots of other odds and ends marked the walls, all mage things, like enchanting equipment and staves, clothing that gleamed with magic, and books that no doubt had something to do with such things as well. Boring. She'd hate to live in this tower, locked up like some sort of vagabond princess. It was damn cold up here and so removed from the rest of the College that it almost seemed like it was a world on its own.

"You've come from Saarthal," Aren said, hardly even sparing her a glance. "Yet something seems wrong. What is it, apprentice?"

She glanced at him idly, half annoyed that he would call her something so…lowly.

"We've discovered something within the ruins. Tolfdir sent me to find you immediately afterwards." Her words were bland. Aren at last looked up at her, disdain coloring his gaze. Maybe he didn't like the disrespect of her tone. Well she wasn't about to grovel all over him just because he was the _Arch Mage_. Such a title wasn't exactly impressive to most Nords, and as for Rannve, well…she just hated authority of any kind, and mages annoyed her most of all with their uppity airs and know-it-all demeanors.

"What did you find?" he asked impatiently, probably thinking the same of her. Nordic heroes most likely didn't impress him either, not that she cared all that much.

Rannve shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest. She blinked at him, then drawled, "Tolfdir called it the Eye of Magnus." That, apparently, was enough to make him leap from his chair, eyes wide. The artifact must have been much more important than she'd thought.

"You've found the Eye of Magnus in Saarthal?!" he exclaimed, and at once his calmness flew out the window – er, well, it would have if there were any windows in this accursed tower.

Rannve tilted her head and said, "Mmhmm. Tolfdir thought you'd like to know. Now if you don't mind, my arm is killing me from my fight with a dragon priest, and I really should go wash off all this foul draugr blood from my armor." She turned on her heel, assuming (perhaps stupidly, she supposed, considering _mages_ ) that the conversation was over. But it wasn't.

Savon Aren stepped closer and asked, "What does it look like? Is it safe? We need to send guards to watch over it. If someone were to steal it…" He was cut off by Rannve's laughter, which verged on hilarity. He was worried about someone stealing the Eye? Divines.

"It's a massive glowing orb," she said, "I really doubt someone would be able to _steal_ it." Maybe they could if they spent time planning a proper heist, but who would even want to? She wouldn't put it past Brynjolf to succeed, since he was a highly trained thief with an extra dosage of luck, but he hated coming up this far north. In any case, she really didn't think they'd have a problem with wayward burglars.

Aren didn't appreciate her amusement, not that it surprised her. He seemed to have the very same serious air that most of his brethren possessed. In fact, after a moment of her standing there in the middle of his foyer, he seemed to forget her presence entirely. He started pacing, eyes downcast as he pondered this new information. Then, just as Rannve was starting to inch toward the door (her arm hurt - !), he swiveled back around to face her.

"I'll speak with you later, after you've rested and healed. Colette may be able to help your arm if she's in a good mood, otherwise we have stocks of potions upstairs on the floor above the sleeping quarters. Help yourself to them – and, Dragonborn," he suddenly said before she could turn around. The use of her title made her pause, surprise coating her eyes as she glanced at him. It was the first time he admitted to knowing who she was, not that it was difficult to figure out anyhow. She waited while he walked to a table, rifled over it, and found what he was looking for. "Here, for your…assistance. Keep up the good work and you'll go far here. We value such ambition here at the College."

Surprise didn't even cover half of what Rannve was feeling when he deposited a round necklace into her hand. It was a moonstone, she guessed, judging by the way the light reflected through the gem. A pretty little trinket that glowed with magicka, and a fair amount of it. She could feel the pulsating beat of the magic pounding through her palm.

Holding it up so it could better catch the light, Rannve murmured, "Thank you. The enchantment…it's magicka restoration?" When he nodded, she hummed. She didn't have much use for it, she silently admitted, but it was a hefty gift despite its small size. Perhaps it would come in handy one day. She lowered her hand, the delicate necklace dangling from her fingers, and nodded her head to him. "I'll be on my way now." And, at last, she was able to leave.

Well. That was interesting. As she walked back across the courtyard to the sleeping quarters, Rannve had to admit that perhaps Savon Aren wasn't as presumptuous as she'd thought. Or maybe he was, but at least he knew how to give gifts. She liked pretty things. It probably had something to do with her draconian soul, but such valuable things fascinated her. And, she thought as she sprawled herself out onto her bed an hour or so later, cleaned up and sleepy, it wasn't such a bad start to an overall bad experience. It sure beat standing around listening to lectures all day, in any case.


	5. Close Wounds

**A/N: In which Onmund gets to know Rannve a little bit better. Things will be moving a bit faster between them now!**

* * *

 **Chapter Five | Close Wounds**

Onmund was back at the college by early evening, after spending the day helping Tolfdir with The Eye of Magnus. The five of them – him, Brelyna, Z'jargo, Arniel, and Tolfdir – made the safe route through the ruins to the large antechamber where the Eye was located. It was a frightful experience, walking through the catacombs, especially with dead draugr haplessly strewn everywhere. Blackish blood seeped through the floors, and – when they reached a towering room with caskets jutting out like waves that spanned the entire ceiling for what looked like miles, Onmund figured he'd finally seen it all. That was until they actually got to the main room, of course.

The moment they stepped over the threshold, he could feel the magic of the orb in the very air he breathed. He'd always been a little more susceptible to the pull of magic, ever since he was a lad. But this, the power, the sheer strength of it, took his breath away – and the sight of the dead dragon priest had a similar effect on him.

It was nothing more than a pile of ash. He hardly noticed it at first, except to remark how odd it was. And then Tolfdir glanced at it and said, "Ah, yes. Those are the remnants of the priest."

He hadn't known they turned to ash when they were killed, but he was a little relieved that this was the case. At least he wouldn't have to worry about it randomly coming back to life and taking them all unawares. It had been difficult enough to step over the dead bodies of the countless draugr Rannve had slain. It felt like they were still watching him, despite their cold dead eyes being shut at last.

In any case, Tolfdir had given the students the option to either return to the college or to stay behind to assist him with the orb. With nothing better to do, Onmund had decided to stay. The others did too – this was a big discovery, after all. And so they all set about poking and prodding the orb, doing some meager studies on it while it hovered there. Until at last, Tolfdir excused them all, as it was getting close to dinner and evening classes.

That was how Onmund ended up back in the sleeping quarters, dusty and grimy and feeling very much in need of a bath. Unfortunately, Brelyna had already claimed the bathing chambers and, since Onmund was a gentleman and there was only one tub, he hadn't argued. He _had_ grumbled to himself about the inconveniences of only having one bathtub in the apprentice bathrooms, but his impatience was quick to dissipate when he walked into the sleeping rooms and heard the telltale sound of cursing coming from the Dragonborn's room. Naturally, his curiosity got the better of him.

He quietly walked to the entrance of her room and peered around the corner, only to find Rannve sitting on her bed and trying to wrap her arm. There were bandages strewn around her, and an opened jar of what looked like ointment rested by her knee. She was having a difficult time binding her arm with only one hand. So Onmund, gentleman as he was, stepped forward to offer assistance.

"Erm…do you need help?" he asked a little awkwardly. Rannve looked up sharply, silver eyes glinting in the dim light of her chambers, and paused.

 _Did_ she need help? Perhaps that was a silly question. She was the Dragonborn after all. Did the Dragonborn ever need help? He was wondering if he should make a quick escape (and save a bit of his dignity too) when Rannve just shrugged and drawled, "Yes, I suppose your assistance wouldn't go amiss. I've been trying to get this thing on for half an hour now." He hesitated again, because this was the _Dragonborn_ , but stepped forward nonetheless.

"I'd offer to use Restoration magic, but I might end up doing more harm than good," he admitted with a self-depreciating grin, trying to make small talk as he took a seat on the bed. He often did that – lower his abilities that is, make them seem like he wasn't talented. He was used to being seen as such. People usually overlooked him, even here at the College, because Nords didn't posses the same inherent magicka reserves that many other races did. In actuality, he was quite skilled at Alteration magic and had a practical knowledge of Restoration, but not nearly enough to make him confident on using it on someone like her. He might end up breaking her arm because of his nervousness.

The Dragonborn – Rannve, he reminded himself – only chuckled. "It's quite alright. I heal quickly anyway. By tomorrow, I'm sure it'll be fine." She did heal quickly. Some byproduct of her abilities, she figured. It was very useful, considering how many people wanted her dead. Being the Dragonborn wasn't exactly a walk in the park.

Onmund didn't inquire into that, though. He glanced at her, looking curious, but respectfully remained silent. Instead, he just gave her a little side-smile and said, "Really? That's fortunate. Here, let me…" He reached for the bandage and her wrist, noting how slender it was. For such a fierce warrior, she certainly wasn't as muscled as he'd expected. In fact, he'd even venture to think she was scrawny in a way, though he'd never say that aloud. For all he knew, she might drown him in dragon fire. She did seem to have arrogant tendencies.

With a gentleness that surprised her, Onmund began to wrap the bandages around her arm. She'd already covered the area with what looked like a cooling balm. He smelled the hint of mountain flower and mint, and figured he must be right. She watched as he did so, lifting her eyes to his as he stared at his work with concentration. Like wrapping her wrist – the Dragonborn's wrist – was an honor like no other. It made her silently scoff a little. This hero worship thing he had going on wasn't really her cup of tea, but neither could she deny the dull flame of interest that sparked beside the disdain. He certainly was different from his fellow Nords. A gentle bumbling Nordic mage…such a thing was hard to come by.

"You spoke with Master Aren?" Onmund inquired quietly, merely as a means to fill the gaping silence between them. He could feel her eyes on him, those serpentine silver eyes, and it was making him awkward and uncomfortable. More so than he usually was. He needed to break up whatever it was that festered between them.

Rannve gave him a blank look and asked, "…Who?"

He gaped at her. Did she really just ask who Master Aren was?

"Er…the Arch-Mage?" he hesitantly questioned, trying to keep from voicing the shock that he felt. How had she joined the College of Winterhold and _not_ _know_ who the Arch-Mage was?

His surprised explanation seemed to clear up her confusion, replacing it with a generous measure of lazy understanding. Rannve shrugged, then winced a little when the movement caused splinters of dulled pain to creep up her arm. "Oh, yes…whatever this Eye is, it's causing quite the uproar around here."

His shock doubled. He stared at her in surprise, then blurted, "You don't know the legends of the Eye?" Then he fell silent, because he hadn't meant to sound so patronizing. It was only that the stories of the Eye of Magnus were ones he had grown up on, despite his family's dislike of mages, and they weren't uncommon tales! He just assumed that everyone knew the fabled power inside the artifact they found. But, embarrassed now, Onmund cleared his throat and mumbled, "Er, I mean, well…being a mage, I suppose I'm a little surprised. Silly of me."

Rannve only raised an eyebrow at him and dryly said, "I am not a mage, nor was I ever interested in dabbling with magical artifacts I do not truly understand." And then _she_ paused, because she saw the way he cringed a little and it made her sigh. "…Perhaps you will tell me some of these stories though, since I am at an obvious disadvantage. If I'm to live in a College full of mages, I should at least know their customs." By the tone of her voice, it was apparent that she'd rather not get too familiar with said customs, and that sort of thinking was only too familiar to Onmund. Most Nords did not hold any particular favor towards magic. It was hardly surprising that she didn't either. But…what he did find surprising was the fact that she adamantly denied herself to be a mage as well.

He tilted his head to the side and slowly, cautiously ventured to say, "You don't classify yourself as a mage, yet you have stores of magicka that far surpass many of the professors here." There was a tiny challenge in his voice that Rannve immediately latched onto. Her silver eyes flickered his way and he held his breath, wondering if he had upset her. But, as Onmund was coming to discover, Rannve rarely got upset. She just got bored and annoyed and impatient.

She sighed and gave a little huff that sounded more childish than he was sure she'd meant. In a very straightforward manner, as if she'd said this a thousand times already and had it memorized, Rannva told him, "Dragons are magical creatures. I have a dragon soul. I've inherited some of that magic. I'm not a mage, I'm the Dragonborn, and I can't wield magic like you can – I use the magicka within me to Shout."

He frowned in confusion and said, "But the ward you put up yesterday was perfect. Surely – "

"That took practice, Onmund," she explained, sounding a bit impatient. "And you tend to learn things fairly quickly when you're about to be blasted by rogue mage fire. Ask me to do a destruction spell and the most I could do is light a candle…though for the record, I could melt your skin off your bones with a fire Shout." She shrugged and gave him an arrogant smirk, but Onmund had hardly even heard her. He was too busy thinking about the way she'd just said his name; the fact that she even _remembered_ his name – the fact that it sounded so strangely provocative encased in that voice of hers.

She raised an eyebrow and glanced down at her bandaged arm. "Well. Thank you for assisting me. I think I'll get some sleep now."

The dismissal was obvious and Onmund jumped to his feet, not wanting to intrude any longer than she wanted him to. He cleared his throat and murmured, "Ah, yes of course. I – I'll leave you to get some rest. Talos knows you've earned it…erm…goodnight then." He backed away, still starry-eyed at the thought of her saying his name.

The corner of her mouth tilted up in amusement. "Goodnight, Onmund." This time, she dragged his name out a little bit, slowly perusing over each syllable and watching him like a hawk, eyes blinking like gilded silver, as if she knew exactly how thrilled the sound of his own name made him. He blushed a little and ducked outside into the hallway, wondering if she really _knew_ or if he was only making it up in his head.

There was only one thing he was certain of: this hero worship was seriously making his head spin.


	6. Bound Dagger

**A/N: In which Rannve gets into a bit of a fight with Brelyna, and realizes that she cares a little more than she thought about a certain Nord mage's opinion of her.**

 **I would really appreciate some reviews btw. Just so I know if anyone likes this story D,: I feel like I'm the only one reading this, and I'm the freaking author lol!**

* * *

 **Chapter Six | Bound Dagger**

Rannve ended up missing the evening class. She figured that she'd done enough for one day. Killing dragon priests was enough trouble, but finding a legendary magical artifact on top of it? She doubted anyone would be upset with her for skipping Tolfdir's lesson so blatantly. And even if they were, she wouldn't have cared, so it was lucky that it didn't seem to matter…to most. Brelyna and J'zargo were the two exceptions, but honestly, their opinions mattered about as much as a fly buzzing around her head. Annoying, but easy to sweep away.

She woke up feeling well rested and much better than she had the night before. With a roll, Rannve moved to the edge of her bed and peered at the little window that offered her some semblance of light. It was dawn, too early for many people around here to be up. Habit had woken her, bred from endless days spent adventuring in the wilds of Skyrim. In fact, she figured she'd actually slept in a little this morning, for the sun was higher than it usually was when she rose.

She sighed and sat up, abandoning her bed in favoring of moving to her desk. Her doeskin leggings and the tunic she'd salvaged from the bottom of her pack made decent enough sleep clothes, but she itched for her armor. Her stomach rumbled lightly and she instinctively wondered what she might hunt for her breakfast – but then remembered that she was at the College, and that practically meant being served on silver platters after the sun had already looped across most of the sky. No hunting while she was there, locked up like a princess who had to prove her worth.

The thought made her annoyed. Hadn't she proven her worth ten times over? Was she not the sort of heroine that the Librarian wanted? The information she sought on the Elder Scrolls was within reach – she was almost there, and yet she was forced to idly sit back and show one blasted Orc that she was worthy of handling a couple decrepit old books. Ludicrous.

A part of her whispered, darkly, that she should just _take_ what she wanted. Her soul screamed with the desire for dominion. Silly humans, the voice whispered, trying to deny a mighty _dovah_ what she wanted. It would be so simple to walk through those doors and demand to see the books that would lead her in the right direction. So easy to threaten that stupid Orc into giving her precisely what she wanted. And if he still refused, well then. Her hands were already bloody. What was one more soul to add to the list of those she had killed? She was trying to save the fucking world, after all.

But no. Rannve sighed and began pulling her armor on. She was as much human as she was dragon. She couldn't just demand whatever she wished. And making an enemy out of the College was a bad idea, despite her more reckless nature. And – that face streaked across her vision, making her pause as she adjusted her cuirass. Onmund, the strange Nord apprentice who looked at her with such enamored eyes…for some reason, she did not want to take away that idolatry. It annoyed her almost as much as it pleased her, a strange combination of emotion that gave her a headache. But there was something about him that left her hesitant, uncertain about how she should proceed in the College, and that alone was enough to annoy her even more. She'd never cared about others before. Why should she concern herself now, of all times?

She was mere steps away from getting that Elder Scroll and figuring out how to defeat Alduin. Perhaps steps away from her inevitable death, even. And if she was to die saving the world, then her mind needed to be clear.

"Talos, give me strength," she muttered, tightening the last strap of her armor with a flourish of her wrist and thinking about how on earth she was going to maneuver her way through this College and all these uppity mages.

Rannve grabbed her sword on her way out, strapping it around her waist. The familiar weight of it was a comfort, if nothing else. Talos forbid she'd have need of it in the peaceful grounds of the College, but she was nothing if not prepared, even if it did make the mages stare.

Everyone was only beginning to wake up by the time she entered the little dining room off of the sleeping area. There was already some food laid out by the head cook, though it wasn't the feast it would become in another half hour, when the other apprentices and professors stumbled down to break their fast. Still, it was more than enough for Rannve, who was used to much less on her journeys, and she sat down in the corner and uncorked a bottle of mead. Not exactly the healthiest first meal of the day, but fuck it, she was the Dragonborn and if she wanted mead before her breakfast then she could damn well have it.

She loaded a plate with some bacon and a slab of bread. The eggs weren't out yet, but after about five minutes, one of the scullery maids came scurrying out with a tray of them and set them down in front of Rannve with a nervous clearing of her throat. "My apologies, Lady Dragonborn. The chef hadn't known you'd be here so early. He'll be sure to wake up earlier from now on to accommodate your morning schedule."

Rannve could have rolled her eyes. By some miracle, she just raised a dry eyebrow and drawled, "That isn't necessary. Tell him to keep to his normal routine. I don't eat much for breakfast anyway."

It was a partial lie, but only a small one. She actually ate a lot for breakfast – being a warrior of considerable talent, she needed the sustenance. But living at the College was hardly a warrior's life, no matter how short a time she planned to linger there, and she definitely didn't need the cook bending over backwards to _accommodate_ her. She didn't care what the others thought of her, but the privilege of it all told her that the other apprentices wouldn't be pleased. Brelyna's scowling face came to mind, too easily imagined.

The maid paused, frowning, but finally nodded her head and moved away. "Very well, then. Enjoy your meal, Lady Dragonborn." She scurried back the way she came.

Rannve was almost tempted to call her back and tell her not to call her that, her name would suffice just as well. She loathed her cursed title with all that she had, but she knew it would be for naught. People would call her what they would. And besides, she did not plan to stay here long. Just long enough to get those books, and then she'd be off, never to bother these silly mages again.

She grumbled to herself and took another swig of mead, drumming her fingers impatiently against the wooden table. How long would she have to wait for those damnable morning classes to start, anyway? She wasn't sure if she'd be able to live here for as long as she feared she might. If only she could find some way to force that Orc's hand…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door swinging open and a group of sleepy, groggy eyed students stepping into the dining hall. There weren't very many apprentices at the College, and each face was somewhat recognizable to Rannve. The campus was tiny so it didn't surprise her. What did surprise her was the way her gaze was immediately drawn to one of them in particular.

The Nord apprentice looked oddly…handsome upon waking up. With his mussed hair and roughened voice, she could easily imagine him in a more lush environment. Her bed, for instance. She smirked idly at the thought, not at all bashful for her wayward morals, and leaned back in the chair. Watching.

He fit right in with the others. It disquieted her a little, to think that these high, mighty mages would welcome a Nord with such open arms. She was all too used to it being the other way around that it definitely caught her eye. But before she could continue that line of thought, she paused, a blank look marring the rare smile that had graced her face – and cocked her head to the side. She had heard her name.

"…knew nothing about the Eye! Can you imagine?" Onmund was saying to the others as they shut the door behind him. Brelyna, who sauntered along at his side with the same lithe manner most Dunmer innately possessed, smirked widely. Though Onmund's words were more surprised than mean, Rannve could tell that the Elf was about to make things heated. She was not wrong.

"Why are you surprised, Onmund?" she asked, purring out his name almost. Rannve's gaze flickered to her hand, which reached forward to grasp his arm and pull him to an open table. It was a needless touch – spurred on by an emotion that Rannve knew too well. She might've choked on her mead had she not been so busy listening. (Admittedly, there were stranger pairings than a Nord and an Elf; perhaps Rannve had spent a little too much time in Windhelm, where such indignations were a deeply rooted feature of everyday life.)

They didn't appear to notice her in her little nook, but Rannve wasn't stupid. She saw the way Brelyna's body was loosely tense, saw the casual way her eyes had wandered over to the fabled heroine. Her next words were meant to injure.

"She's just a brutish Nord who somehow got a title that makes her think she's more powerful than the rest of us. Let's face it: her arrogance defines her. She thinks she's better than everyone else just because she's got some weird power – and I'm willing to bet that this Voice of hers is just a fable too."

Rannve tilted her head to the side and caught Brelyna's eye. The Dark Elf wasn't smirking. She didn't seem to take much pleasure in the words, which made Rannve pause. The woman wanted something. Wanting her to go over there and set her straight, perhaps? Prove to them that her arrogance really did define her? Huh. She hated politics and head games just as much as she hating bending to someone else's will.

Onmund hesitated, frowned, and murmured, "Brelyna…"

His voice was softly scolding. He'd had this conversation before, then. Maybe several times. Rannve waited, wondering if he would defend her or not. Any good Nord would defend their hero, but he wasn't a _typical_ Nord. He changed all the rules that her kin adhered to. It wouldn't have surprised her very much if he agreed with the other mage – after all, mages were their _own kind_ , regardless of their ancestors.

Yet a part of her was sure that he would stick up for her. After all, he'd spent the last few days practically mooning over the ground she walked on like she was some kind of goddess. Whenever he looked at her, his eyes would go all shiny. Perhaps he had the mind of a mage, but his heart was all Nord.

…Which was why a part of her was very shocked indeed when he sighed and muttered, "Fine. You're right. She's arrogant and a little hard to be around. Definitely not the sort of hero I expected her to be."

Oh? She'd fallen short of all his rosy expectations of her? The corner of her mouth twisted, but she wasn't sure if it was in a smirk or a frown. Her mind uselessly supplied her with images of the night before, how he'd carefully wrapped her wrist and hand; his gentle, nonjudgmental surprise at the fact that she was ignorant of mage history. Perhaps he had been judging her after all. Suddenly she felt a little wary. It was always the quiet ones – wasn't that how the saying went? Always the ones you least expected to do you harm, who turned out to be the very people who wielded the most of it.

Not the sort of hero he expected? Well. Good. She wasn't a hero, no matter how many people said she was. Her hands were bloody. Her soul was dark. She never claimed to have the ability to save the world – that duty had been thrust upon her like so many others.

She gripped her mead hard and tipped it back, swallowing a mouthful of it before slamming it down on the table. The noise made the entire room jump, silence pouring into it as every head turned in her direction. Surprise, embarrassment – she should feel those things, right? That's what any normal person would feel when they'd just overheard people gossiping about her behind her back. But she just felt empty. Hollow. Her expression was a blanket that gave nothing away. What did she care about one Nord mage?

She caught his eye, unblinking, unfazed. A challenge swept her up. Who would look away first? Who would flee? She stared at him with all the emptiness in the world and Onmund just stared back, looking faintly sick. Was he embarrassed that she'd heard him, or just that he'd gotten caught? The corner of her mouth tilted upward into some semblance of a sneer, and his eyes darted away like a rabbit weakly jumping out of harm.

In one fluid movement, Rannve stood, a warrior in a room of mages. The bottle of mead hanging from loose fingers, and she relaxed into a position that seemed just as loose, unfrightening, harmless. Her gait was slow and steady and careless as she walked for the doors. She would not give that Elf what she wanted. She didn't care what they thought of her.

She never reached the door. Brelyna's voice burst out into laughter, unfurling into a cacophony of amusement that made Rannve stop all movement. Oh no, no no. This was a challenge that she just couldn't let slip away. This was something that her arrogance would not allow. Her breath shortened, silver eyes spearing ahead at her exit – glowing, almost, pupils dilating into a serpentine sneer. This was a College, she told herself, she couldn't just turn it into a tavern brawl – but how she dearly wanted to make it one. Her fingers itched toward steel.

"Oh this is just priceless!" Brelyna snickered as some of the other mages joined in hesitantly, warily. The Dunmer tipped her head back and laughed loudly, "Did the _fabled hero_ get her feelings hurt?" Just one more snicker, Rannve told herself. Just one more, and her control would break. She never had good self control anyway.

When the snicker came a moment later, Rannve felt justified. She turned around and the laughter stopped, halting abruptly as everyone stared at her face, her eyes – eyes that looked like a _dragon's._ Onmund's own eyes widened fractionally in what appeared to be part shock, part hero worship. The sight of it annoyed her. All she could hear were his words. _'Not the hero I expected.'_ Maybe it was time to show him that she wasn't a hero at all.

She stalked forward. Even Brelyna stopped laughing, instead drawing herself up into her full height. Back straight, crimson eyes narrowed. The Elf looked every bit as daunting as any other Dunmer, but Rannve wasn't accustomed to fear. She had shed those bonds long ago.

She came to a slow, perusing halt by the table and smirked. The sight was sheer predator, like she was about to eat the Elf whole as a mid morning snack. She kept her hands away from her weapons. Not a tavern brawl, not a tavern brawl, she reminded herself over and over. She didn't want to lose control. The stupid Orc would never trust her around his fucking books if he heard she'd murdered one of the apprentices in cold blood.

"I _am_ arrogant," she murmured, and faces flinched – actually flinched at the sound of her voice. It was lower, rougher, a weapon in its own right. And even though her tone was quiet, soft even, the words carried like a spell, shattering the silence like a canon exploding in a torrid of smoke. She leaned forward, unblinking gaze staring straight into that crimson glare, and chuckled darkly. "I'm a _killer_. I'm a _thief_. I'm a lot of things, mage. Do you know what I'm not?" She paused for emphasis, and drawled, "I'm not a hero. I'd sooner watch the _world burn_ than try to save it. If it got rid of idiots like you, I think it'd be a worthy cause."

Brelyna snarled and stood up, robes flaring after her, expression composed in a fierce sneer that made those red eyes glow a tune of their own. But Rannve just raised her eyebrow and blinked. "What would you have me do? Fight you over breakfast?" She chuckled again and leaned back, looking down at the Elf like she was some sort of bug. "Believe me, it would give me no greater pleasure. But alas," she shrugged, eyes flashing, "I am here for a purpose, which doesn't involve ridding the world of one less mage. Next time, perhaps you should hold your tongue, _Brelyna_ , otherwise I _shan't_ hold mine."

She stepped back, lifted the bottle of mead still hanging from those loose fingers, and tipped it back as she turned away. The liquid barely had the chance to be swallowed before the familiar slice of a dagger cutting through air had Rannve stiffen and expertly snatch her hand out. Onmund exclaimed, "Brelyna!" in a very shocked voice that sounded extremely uncomfortable, but the deed was already done and Rannve was already twisting around with one lithe movement.

She caught the dull dagger between two fingers as if she was swiping a fly from the air, causing the Dunmer to stare in shock. Onmund turned, eyes wide like he expected to see the Nordic heroine with a dagger sticking out of her chest. What he saw instead was probably a lot more appealing. Well, after what he'd said before, perhaps it wasn't.

It was Rannve's turn to laugh, though no one joined in this time. She tipped her head back and gave a sharp, sneering chuckle that made Brelyna's cheeks flare up in a grayish pinkish flush.

"This old butter knife again? Allow me to give you some advice, my dear: get rid of this useless thing. I doubt even _Eorland Gray-Mane_ could make this sharp again." She smirked and twisted it between her fingers. Despite the insult at the dull blade, she still managed to throw it with deadly accuracy into the opposite wall, where it hit the banner of Magi dead center and probably sank into the wood behind it several inches. Ha. Let the Dunmer try to wrestle _that_ out.

The Dragonborn turned on her heel, tipped the bottle of mead back, and left as she was taking a casual swig, as if she dealt with these sorts of situations every day. She didn't, but as she ducked out into the cold courtyard and took a breath of fresh air, Rannve almost wished she did. The look on those faces, on that _Dunmer's_ face, was something she'd not soon forget. With a chuckle, Rannve began to whistle a merry tavern song beneath her breath as she made her way to the main hall, feeling ridiculously proud of herself despite having definitely riffled Brelyna's feathers. She should probably petition the Arch Mage to put up a door in her room, lest the apprentice get any ideas about slitting her throat while she slept.


	7. Raise Undead

**A/N: In which Rannve is so bored that she ends up tracking down an amulet that apparently belongs to Onmund, for reasons she cannot fully identify. Isn't it amusing how, the moment you complete this quest, Onmund just falls all over your character and basically proposes to you on the spot if you're wearing the amulet of Mara? The story may or may not follow this plot. I guess we'll have to see. ;)**

 **Fine136: Thank you! It's fun fleshing out the NPC characters and giving them more of a personality. If you're new to Skyrim, you should try the Interesting NPCs mod! It adds a ton of new characters that have extensive dialogue and it makes the game more fun (in my opinion). Anyway, things will get better between her and Onmund very soon. I should warn you though - this is a slow burn romance. It'll take a while for it to develop, but I fully intend on continuing it to the end!**

 **Vixune: I agree, there aren't enough Onmund fanfics out there! I'm having fun with Rannve being a none-mage/traditional Nord too, it makes the relationship between her and Onmund more interesting I think. I don't usually play as a mage character, so this part of the main quest always seemed strange to me. I thought it would be interesting to see how I could incorporate that into a story like this.**

 **Thank you for the reviews! I'll be updating in a couple of days! Without further ado, please enjoy.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven | Raise Undead**

In hindsight, she probably could have handled that situation better. Whenever they passed each other in the hallways or during class, Brelyna's new expression toward Rannve was simmering anger. Despite her experience with being on the receiving end of such an expression (most specifically from her enemies), it made Rannve more than a little unnerved. Worse, news of the incident had spread very quickly through the tiny campus, and now every other student was giving her an even wider berth than before. Even some of the professors were a little more wary around her. But what took her most off guard (and disappointed her more than she expected) was Onmund's reaction.

Why would she care if he suddenly stopped mooning over her? She should have been grateful that his hero worship had come to an end. She certainly shouldn't have felt any semblance of _hurt_. She didn't even know why she felt the way she did. She hardly knew the Nord, and before that moment, she didn't even think she wanted to know him. But the way he made himself scarce around her _did_ hurt her, when she was being honest with herself at least. As did the carefully blanketed expression he wore whenever he failed to avoid her. It was maddening.

Worse still, the Orc seemed to have no intention of letting her into his library again, especially after hearing about her _scandalous_ behavior in the dining hall. (As if it wasn't perfectly called for.) Apparently he seemed to think that she was capable of setting every book in his library on fire like some petulant child if she didn't get her way. Which she was sorely tempted to do, but even she wasn't so disrespectful as to destroy centuries worth of history in one fell swoop.

That left her with little else to do besides attending the stupid classes and finding ways to entertain herself. To her utter horror, she ended up in the library more often than not, actually reading and (dare she think it) _studying_. Like a common student. Because she was bored. And because no one would talk to her. At least she got a sense of wicked amusement whenever she entered that library – the Orc's reaction to her presence was a source of entertainment that lasted for hours.

When she wasn't doing either of those things, Rannve would escape the stifling confines of the College and meander into Winterhold. Plenty of people there respected her, especially when she explained to them _why_ she was at the College. It was of little surprise that Winterhold's general population, small as it was, distrusted the mages. And, to her delight, there were quite a lot of people in the tiny village that needed help. Rannve wasn't usually quite so willing to bestow her services in such an eager way, but the boredom of the College was so complete that she jumped right into every single 'adventure' that she could find. They were hardly so grand as delving into ancient ruins or killing dragons, but at least she felt useful.

As it was, her growing standing in the village was some cause of annoyance for the College itself, which she found amusing. Tolfdir had even taken her aside the other day and asked her why she didn't spend her free time studying and learning new spells, like the other apprentices did. It was hardly any secret as to why she was at the College to begin with, though, and so she'd just told him that until the stupid Orc took her seriously, then she wouldn't take anything else seriously either. It was…a little childish of her. Admittedly.

In any case, she was in the tavern one evening, two cups into a bottle of Nord mead that tasted like piss but at least succeeded in making her head nice and fuzzy. She was lifting her mug to her lips when she heard a deep grumbling chuckle and noticed, for the first time, the presence of a bosmer sitting one table down. Wood elves were hardly a rare specimen on this side of Skyrim, but she had no idea what one was doing in this very Nordic tavern. Especially one wearing College robes. She was faintly surprised that the barkeep even allowed him entrance…though he'd also allowed that other elf, the Altmer, to actually live in the spare room and conduct his odd magical experiments at all hours of the day, so perhaps she shouldn't have been too surprised. Coin was probably hard to come by this far north.

The other regulars kept their distance though, sometimes shooting the bosmer disquieted looks that spoke of their distrust. Rannve glanced at the elf curiously, noting the rather shady looking man he was speaking to over a mug of ale, and tilted her head to listen better. They were talking about an amulet.

"Stupid boy practically gave it to me for free," the bosmer was chuckling. "And now he wants it _back_. What do you think – should I charge him twice as much for it, or just make him do something for me? Apprentices are easy to manipulate. They always think they know everything."

An apprentice? Which apprentice would be shortsighted enough to actually barter with this shady creature?

The other man, an Imperial, shrugged, "If the boy dies while on your little quest, you'll be held responsible. Better to get the money and be done with it."

The bosmer apparently saw the wisdom in that. He hummed beneath his breath and nodded. "Probably right. Shame, that. I was gonna send him to get that staff for me. It'll cost an arm and a leg to hire mercs to do the job." There was an sigh and Rannve rolled her eyes.

She was half tempted to go and speak to the shady elf, if only to find a more substantial way of curbing her boredom. The other citizens of this town didn't send her into dangerous places to retrieve lost family heirlooms or some such thing. Instead they had her go out hunting, or restocking something that needed tending to, or gathering healing herbs. Boring things, though not quite as boring as being cooped up in her room without a door, listening to Brelyna across the hall and wondering when the dark elf was going to enact her revenge.

The other half of her repelled the mere idea of helping any apprentice from the College. Why should she go out of her way to help some idiot who was foolish enough to make a deal with an elf like that? Let him learn his lesson, she thought, and took another swig of her mead. There was no reason to go out of her way for anyone at the College.

She changed her mind only a day later.

She was waiting in the Hall of the Elements for Tolfdir to start another of his classes. It was an evening class, just before dinner. Rannve was leaning against a pillar to the side, arms crossed and eyes closed, looking completely bored and half shrouded in the shadows. The other students were assembled not far away in several small groups. They gossiped to each other, spoke of their studies and other boring things while they waited. She had tuned most of them out and probably wouldn't have heard Brelyna's voice had her senses not remained as sharp as always. It helped that she tended to be aware of the dark elf more than she'd been before. Survival instinct and all that.

Anyway – Brelyna, J'zargo, and Onmund were once again in their own little circle and speaking quietly to each other so as not to disturb the general silence of the Hall, and they were talking about an amulet.

"I can't believe you gave it to Enthir! Did he pay you at all for it?" Brelyna was hissing. Naturally, anything that annoyed Brelyna interested Rannve, so she opened her eyes a notch and peered at the three apprentices.

Onmund shuffled a little on his feet and blushed, probably because he was embarrassed at being spoken to as if he were a child. With a sigh, he insisted, "He paid me! He gave me…erm. Twenty septims." Then he cringed a little, because he obviously knew it was a paltry sum for a heirloom that was worth much more.

J'zargo let out a disbelieving laugh. "Twenty septims for an amulet that's been in your family for generations? This one thinks you should just steal it back."

Onmund looked ruffled at the notion. "I wanted to get rid of it and I did. But now I…I think I regret it."

Brelyna huffed, "What did he say when you asked for it back?" She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at him. The sight was intimidating enough to make Onmund clear his throat before speaking.

"He wants twice as much coin. But he also said that if I retrieve a staff for him, he'll trade it back." The suggestion was enough to interest both his companions, who leaned forward to inquire as to where this staff was located. Onmund shifted again in discomfort and admitted slowly, "There are vampires holed up in Bleakcoast Cave." From the shadows, Rannve snorted.

Luckily no one heard. Brelyna was too busy exclaiming, "A vampire den?!" She started going off about how crazy that was and how they would all get themselves killed – or worse, contract the disease and becomes vampires themselves. The latter statement actually made J'zargo tilt his head curiously and offer a brief list of benefits that they'd have if they were to become such creatures, which made Brelyna hit him on his furry head with a snarl as she said something about how ludicrous it would be for a Khajiit to become a vampire. The topic was getting a little off as J'zargo told Brelyna how it would actually make a lot of sense, with his already sharp teeth and all. Onmund was the one to put a stop to it.

"There's no way I'm going into a vampire den," he said, voice low so that it wouldn't carry too far. "I'll just have to raise enough money to buy it back and hope that Enthir doesn't sell it to anyone else before I can."

Rannve thought it was unlikely. The bosmer was shadier than most. If he hadn't already sold it, then he was lining up potential buyers as these apprentices whispered back and forth about how they were going to raise said coin. It was hopeless. And yet…it wasn't.

She could buy the amulet back. She could clear out a den of vampires too. Rannve had more money than she knew what to do with, and more experience than most when dealing with vampires. But Onmund would probably not appreciate her assistance. Which was a shame, really, because without it, he'd probably never see his precious amulet again.

Perhaps she would speak with Enthir about the matter. But for now, she had yet another boring lecture to sit through as Tolfdir came bounding through the doors.

* * *

Enthir was apparently the worst sort of man in existence. One sentence in, and Rannve had already decided that she wanted to swindle him out of this deal just for the satisfaction of beating him at his own game. And now she had agreed to go vampire hunting for the sake of some amulet she knew nothing about, save for the fact that it belonged to a man that, coincidentally, she also knew nothing about. Enthir had picked up on that, too.

"Why do you care about some boy you've only met a few times?" he'd asked. She hadn't known what to say, really. She didn't know why she cared. She told herself it was because no one deserved to be on the receiving end of such treatment, but she knew that was just a cover that hid something else. Something even she didn't truly understand.

So she was killing vampires. For an apprentice mage who was foolish enough to sell an expensive family heirloom for a handful of coin.

"Why do vampires even want a staff that charms people?" she muttered to herself as she sliced through one of the creatures. It was the last of them. Their bodies were strewn around her, and she stepped lithely over limbs and blood before snatching up the vagabond staff from the leader's cold corpse. Even in her frankly insane life, this was just ridiculous.

The staff was delicate, too delicate for a foul vampire, and the magic that radiated from it was of a frivolous nature. But then again, she rather thought all magic was a bit frivolous, so Rannve just glowered and stalked out of the cave clutching the wooden staff and ignoring the dull pain that radiated from several scratches layered over her chin. Stupid creatures had long nails.

She'd spent the better half of the afternoon traveling to the cave itself. It was a trek that took several hours of roaming down the frozen coast of the Sea of Ghosts, skirting out of the way of the odd horker, and working up a brilliant display of fury with every step. By the time she started back, Rannve just wanted to throw the staff at Enthir (preferably at his head), take the amulet, and pretend all this never happened. And in between the entertaining thoughts of the various ways she could maim Enthir with the staff, Rannve wondered how she would actually deliver said amulet.

She hadn't thought that far when she had agreed to this mess.

What could she do? Awkwardly approach him and thrust the amulet at him in a random bout of nervous energy? No no no. She was the fucking Dragonborn. She did not get nervous. Maybe she should just leave it somewhere for him to conveniently find. That wasn't necessarily getting _out_ of anything, it was merely making things _easier_ for them both. Onmund would be allowed to continue ignoring Rannve's existence and Rannve would tuck away the parts of her that were clearly more sentimental than she'd like to admit.

It was a good plan. She could toss it onto his bed when he wasn't around and let him find it on his own. He'd probably never suspect it was her anyway – she apparently wasn't enough of a hero to do silly little things like that. She'd be free to continue living in the perfectly arrogant and lovely way she'd been for years now, and he'd be oblivious.

Enthir was in the tavern when she arrived back in Winterhold. In was snowing lightly and she was cold and uncomfortable from having walked so long through the elements. Stepping inside the tavern was like walking into another world, and a much warmer one at that. She sighed, inhaling the scent of roasted vegetables and beef stew and brewed mead.

"Dinner?" the barkeep asked as she approached. Enthir was watching her impatiently from the shadows in the corner, but Rannve needed an ale before she faced him. It would, at the very least, stop her from going through with all her morbid little daydreams that had kept her warm on her way back.

She paused and then nodded, "Yes. And something strong." The barkeep immediately passed her some of their locally brewed stock, then turned back to start preparing her meal. She turned too, uncorking the ale and making her way to the corner where the shady elf was waiting.

"I hope the vampires weren't too much trouble," he said by way of greeting, gaze trained on the staff in Rannve's hands. She rolled her eyes. Creepy bastard.

"Just give me the amulet," she said. The barkeep was setting a plate of cooked beef and those roasted vegetables down, and the bread he served with it looked fresh and delicious. She took a sip of the ale and turned her attention back to Enthir, who was pulling out the amulet from his pocket with a smirk.

"Then our transaction is complete," he said as he handed the jewelry to her. "I'm still curious as to why you risked your life to help the boy. Maybe you'll tell me the story over some mead."

Rannve huffed, grabbed the amulet, and thrust the staff into Enthir's hands. She wasn't entirely sure if he was actually wanted to know or was just trying to hit on her, but she had no desire to share drinks with the shady creature. With a sneer, she said, "I hardly risked my life. Getting to the cave was harder than killing a couple of fledging vampires." Then she turned on her heel and stalked to her food, holding the amulet in her hand. Enthir just blinked, shrugged, and turned back to admire his prize.


	8. Pacify

**A/N: In which Onmund discovers something he had not expected to see again, and goes off in search of the only person who could possibly have the available resources that would have solved his predicament.**

 **Starting now, the story will begin to feature a lot more interactions between Rannve and Onmund!**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight | Pacify**

Onmund returned to his quarters after his evening class feeling worse than he had all day. His confidence had taken a drop when he realized that he wasn't quite as good at destruction magic as his classmates. How Z'jargo could summon such powerful fire was beyond him, and even with his friend helping him outside of class, Onmund could only summon a paltry fire spell that would be more useful in lighting a campfire than hurtling at an enemy. At least he had excelled in his Alteration class that afternoon, though he was once again left wondering at the benefits of even bothering to learn how to breathe under water or harden armor. It wasn't as if he made a habit of plunging into battle, or oceans for that matter.

On top of that, his amulet was still troubling him immensely. Why he'd ever thought it wise to sell the damned thing was beyond him. He'd done so in a fit of emotional detachment, hoping to somehow distance himself from the family who looked down on his magical talents. The liberating sense of freedom had lasted only a few hours before he'd hurried back to Enthir to revoke their deal, but the elf had been stubborn and staunchly denied him, telling him that his deals were final and that if he wanted the amulet back, he needed coin. Much more coin than he had sold it for. The elf hadn't even looked repentant.

He sighed as he entered the living quarters, kicked the snow from his boots before making his way to his room. Brelyna had spent the entire day at the library and he'd only seen J'zargo fleetingly outside of their Destruction class. The bite of loneliness hit him hard, and as he walked into his room, he wondered what his life would have been like if he'd stayed in his small village. Would he have grown accustomed to living on a farm? To plowing fields all day? To marrying whatever woman his parents sent his way, for the sole purpose of having children and a hot meal after a hard day's work? The thought galled him, and yet he entertained the daydream for a moment as he sat on the side of his bed and began working on unbuckling his boots.

It might have been nice, having a wife and a house and a field to plant whatever he wanted. He would've gotten to know whatever woman he'd have married, and perhaps he would have even grown to love her. He wouldn't have spent the nights alone and shivering from the cold, and Onmund had always wanted children. But a life without magic? A life without the knowledge he now possessed? And the adventures he'd had since coming to the College – learning new spells, delving into Saarthal, meeting the Dragonborn herself! No one would ever believe him back home.

The thought of the Dragonborn sent his emotions into a flurry. The extreme guilt he felt for acting like a gossipy maiden made him purse his lips and groan. If only he'd known that she was there, listening to everything they said about her, judging their every word… She had done so much in her life and she was still so young! Killing dragons didn't even cover the majority of it – the tales he had heard of her exploits in the major cities had always made him wonder what kind of person she really was. And then he had met her, and discovered that she was a little more arrogant than expected, a little more brutal than he'd thought. Not the proud, ever-beautiful war maiden of his dreams but rather a woman much more empowered by the apparent lack of excitement in her life. As if being the Dragonborn could ever be boring!

Still, he couldn't believe he'd allowed Brelyna to scoff at the heroine of Skyrim like she had. And to have the gall to throw a knife at her back? What if Brelyna's knife throwing skills had been better? What if she'd ended up killing the Dragonborn before she could save the world? Brelyna had been the first friend Onmund had made in the College, but she had taken it a step too far. And yet he couldn't quite work up the courage to approach the Dragonborn (Rannve, his mind supplied helpfully).

Before that moment, he hadn't really thought of her as the Dragonborn because he hadn't truly seen what she was capable of. But he could still picture the smooth, lightening fast movements of her fingers catching Brelyna's knife mid-air and swinging it back into the wall with a force that shocked him. And after she'd left, it had taken Brelyna almost ten minutes to pry the knife out of the wood, it was stuck so deeply. By the time she had, the Dunmer was dark faced and raging, with a glint in her eye that made Onmund a little worried. He'd stuck to her side for days afterwards, afraid that she might do something she'd later regret to the fabled hero (or something _he'd_ later regret), but she hadn't and Onmund was too worried about inciting her rage to go and apologize to the Dragonborn for the mishap.

He sighed and fell back on the mattress, then cursed when he felt something digging into his back. A shuffled turn later, and Onmund was staring wide-eyed at the necklace that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. His amulet was laying on his bed as if it had been there all along, as if he'd just thrown it there and forgot about it. As if he hadn't sold it in the first place.

"What…?" he found himself whispering, reaching for the pendant with gentle fingers. He traced the edges of it in wonderment. He had definitely not expected to find it here, of all places. He rather imagined that it would be around some nobleman's neck by now, far from his grasp.

Enthir wouldn't have just given it back. He'd made such a fuss about it when Onmund had gone to see him before. Someone must have paid him for it, but who? Had his family found out? Did Brelyna write to them? Or did she herself pay for its return? He knew that the elf came from a good family back in Morrowind. It would have been relatively simple for her to ask her parents for the coin. But it would have taken weeks for it to be delivered, and it had only been a matter of days.

He turned his thoughts to everyone he knew. His professors didn't know about his predicament, and he doubted his friends would tell them even though Enthir was technically part of the faculty. He had only told Brelyna and J'zargo, for that matter, and he doubted they would have told any of the other apprentices. Even if they had, the others weren't such good friends that they would go out of their way to right his wrong. And then he paused, because that thought brought him to one person in particular. One person who _did_ go out of her way to right people's wrongs. One person who had, suspiciously, disappeared for _hours_ the day before and hadn't been seen until very late.

He snatched up the amulet and stumbled from his room.

Rannve was sitting at her desk when he barged in, writing several letters and updating her journal. She glanced up idly when he appeared loudly in front of her, but said nothing and just turned back to her letter. Onmund held his breath and wondered if he should wait for her to finish or not. In the back of his mind, he knew he was being rude. One didn't just barge into a woman's quarters at night, especially when that woman was a fabled hero who was known across Tamriel.

But he couldn't stop himself from holding up the amulet and blurting, "This was you, wasn't it?" He almost cringed at the accusatory tone of his voice. He hadn't meant it to come out like that.

She looked at the amulet, then looked at his face, and shrugged again. "Mmm." The response was so noncommittal that it actually had him gritting his teeth in frustration.

"But how did you know? Did Enthir go to you? How much money did you spend? I will pay you back, I swear it," he mumbled a few things about possibly helping Sergius with enchantment deliveries for extra coin but Rannve hardly heard him.

She raised an eyebrow and flipped a page of her journal, half ignoring him as she tried to figure out why he was so upset. "I didn't pay for it at all," she told him breezily, and his words became a garbled mess as he cut himself off.

"You didn't – " he paused, eyes widening frantically as he looked her over, "You mean you went into a vampire den and - ?" Talos. Was she injured? Did she contract the disease? Was he at fault for turning the Dragonborn into a creature of the night?

She looked fine though, as well as completely amused. "They were fledging vampires, Onmund. It was simple. I doubt they even had the curse a full month." She smiled, the corner of her mouth tilting up, and for a brief moment, his breath caught for a different reason entirely.

Then that moment ended, and he mumbled, "I…see. But you still went there for me. I – I mean…why did you…do that?"

He'd been so rude to her the past week, and yet she'd still gone out of her way to help him when he didn't even deserve it. No one had ever done that before. He was never important enough so someone to face down a den of vampires for him. Even if they were fledgings.

She hummed beneath her breath and looked at him in the eye. The stark silver of her gaze made him shift, at once as uncomfortable as he was intrigued. It was an unnerving feeling, to be sure.

"I was bored," she said, as if she had been trying to figure it out for herself, too. Then she chuckled and said, "Anyway. Enthir won't bother you again. I told him I'd send a dragon to his doorstep if he so much as thought about it."

Onmund gaped. There was really no other response for that.

"You - ! Can you do that?!" he exclaimed, leaning in. He had a feeling he looked like the hero-worshiping fool he'd been trying to suppress for the past week, because Rannve pursed her lips to stop a smile from spreading them apart. An errant thought hit him then – that she really shouldn't, because she looked very nice when she was smiling. Lighter, happier, lovelier.

She smirked instead, and turned mischievous and deviously entertained. "Well, there's one dragon who I've befriended, though I doubt he would come just because I called him. It's the thought that counts, though, don't you think?" Indeed it was. Enthir looked terrified. For such a shady elf, he was rather bad at calling her bluffs. Of course, there were multiple ways of translating the threat too. She was part dragon, so she could always show up on his doorstep herself. Perhaps that was what terrified him so.

Onmund looked positively enlightened. He grinned and moved to sit on her bed without thinking. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. But I…" he paused and rubbed the back of his neck, "I'll find a way to pay you back. If you ever need a mage on your travels…that is, I'm not a very _good_ mage, but if you ever – "

Rannve laughed. "I will remember, though I'm sure you'll regret those words if I ever take you up on your offer. I have the strangest adventures."

He grinned back and blushed, and this time his daydreams took him to wide open fields of snow and warm campfires and dragons roaring in the distance.


	9. Harmony

**A/N: In which Rannve actually asks someone for help for the first time in her life, and the person she turns to is a little too eager to lend his assistance. T** **he main plot of the story will be introduced within the next couple of chapters, as Rannve's situation concerning Urag and the books comes to a impasse.**

 **Please feel free to leave a review on your way out! Verbal feedback is always very much appreciated! :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine | Harmony**

Onmund hadn't been lying when he said he'd pay her back. Honestly, she should have been used to the grateful displays of the masses (she dealt with them often enough, and she hadn't even saved the world yet), but it felt…odd, coming from him. At least he was a little more subtle in his appreciation than some.

The next day was an eye opening experience though. Rannve woke up a little later than usual, tired from the previous day of hard travel. When she stepped outside of her room, she was surprised to find a tray of breakfast waiting for her. She looked at it suspiciously for a moment before bringing it inside and setting it on her desk, nosing through the contents of the meal curiously. It was standard fare. Eggs, sausage, and toasted bread spread with butter. Strange though. No one had ever left her breakfast before.

It didn't end there. Her first class that morning was Magical Theory. It bored her to tears. She was half tempted to just throw herself out of one of the windows of the Hall of Elements just to spare herself the boredom. The moment the dreadful hour ended, she was out the door and intent on pestering the Orc as an afternoon treat – but she was stopped before she could reach the library. By Onmund. Who was nervously waiting by the main doors. When he saw her, his face lit up and he stepped forward with a subtle blush that gave her pause. He looked…handsome when he was blushing. What an odd thing to think.

"Rannve – er. I hope I can call you that?" he asked awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. It was a gesture she often saw him use, mostly when he was uncomfortable or embarrassed, and was strangely charming, in a way she couldn't identify. She speared him a look and tilted her head silently, immensely pleased when he blushed all the harder.

Her silence quickly prompted him to continue, "I was hoping that you'd consider joining us for lunch? That is…if you're hungry. I know Brelyna and you haven't gotten off to a good start…I was hoping – "

"That we would kiss and make up?" Rannve asked with an amused smile. "I only do that with certain people. Namely those I don't mind kissing." The little joke made him clear his throat as red overtook his cheeks. It wasn't just charming, she decided; it was endearing. Completely endearing. And amusing too.

Onmund seemed at a loss for words, so Rannve said in a gentler tone, "Onmund, I'm not sure that's a good idea. Brelyna doesn't like me very much, and besides, I was hoping to cajole the Orc into treating me like a student this afternoon."

His embarrassment gave way to confusion. "The Orc?" he asked, then laughed. "Oh, you mean Head Librarian Urag. I was there that day, you know, when you went to see him. You…er, probably don't remember." He wasn't exactly noticeable to very many people. Being overlooked and underestimated tended to do that to a person.

Rannve raised an eyebrow and looked at him curiously. "Were you? I was a bit annoyed that day. I don't notice much of anything when I'm angry. But – now that we're on the subject, do you have any advice?"

His mind blanked. The Dragonborn was asking for advice? From what he'd thus far learned about Rannve's character, he found it rather surprising that she would want to hear someone else's opinion.

He coughed and murmured, "Um. What about?" Something sparked inside him. If she needed counsel, he would gladly give it. She had faced down a den of vampires for him – of course he would help her in any way he could.

She sighed, sending a narrowed glance at the library door. "That stupid Orc won't give me the texts I need about Elder Scrolls. Every time I go see him we argue and I leave wanting to blow the whole place up. So. You're a student…right?" her lip curled at the word and she asked, "I have to prove that I'm a student too. So what do students _do_ , exactly?"

The question actually made him bark out a disbelieving laugh. Her narrowed gaze fell upon him at the sound of it, and he immediately cleared his face of the smile that threatened to disrupt his expression. He shuffled. "Erm. Well. Students…study?"

It was clear that this response wasn't what she'd been hoping for. Her face crinkled into disgust. "What, really? I have to _study?"_

This time, Onmund really couldn't hold his chuckle back. It escaped from his lips before he could rein it in. She really seemed to hate the idea. He didn't particularly blame her. He didn't want to appear rude, but she hardly looked the type to bother with such things.

"Well, Urag wants you to prove that you're a student here, right? Going to class, taking notes, studying, doing homework – that's what a student does." He shrugged and grinned when her disgust turned several shades more potent.

It was odd, seeing her face contort in such a way. Not bad, just strange. Her usual expression was perfect blankness, like a landscape of white snow. He was enjoying the process of getting to know her facial expressions just as much as he enjoyed learning about new magical practices. It was nearly as intriguing.

"Huh," she mumbled, and then in a louder voice, said, "You want to pay me back for retrieving your amulet? Instead of leaving me breakfast, you'll help me with this _studying_. Deal?"

He immediately started choking. "Wh-! Who told you I left you breakfast? Did J'zargo mention it?" That Khajiit always meddled.

Rannve's eyebrows rose into her hairline. She laughed, and his heart stuttered a little at the sight. "No one told me," she said incredulously. "You're just transparent."

Onmund paused, then bushed. Well. This was embarrassing, but he'd been called much worse. "Er. Okay. Um…I suppose I can help you with – "

Her eyes lit up and she gave him a smile that left him utterly breathless. "You'll help? Good!" Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him, and Onmund decided that breathing really wasn't that important anyhow. Not when the literal woman of his dreams and the living hero of the country was hugging him. Hugging _him_. _Tightly_.

She retreated before he could really appreciate the touch (and the scent of her hair and the way she was a lot shorter than he'd first thought, because she fit so well against him - ) and darted toward the library.

"I'm going to go bother the Orc anyway though. It amuses me," she told him with a smirk, and as she disappeared inside, she called, "I'll meet you in an hour and we can get started!"

Studying wouldn't be so hard, would it? With Onmund helping, she'd get those books in a matter of days!

* * *

"…So you basically take the dimensions of the width and the layer of radiation and – er. Rannve?"

"This is so boring."

"No it's not! It's fascinating!"

"Can we take a break?"

Onmund sighed, scrubbed at his eyes, and said, "How about after we finish working with wards? Toldfir's assignment for this week is important – and you haven't actually done any homework yet." He chuckled as if the mere thought was ridiculous, and she frowned like she was confused. Seeing it, he added, "At this rate, you're going to fail the class."

Rannve sat up, looking outraged at the notion. "How could I fail when I haven't even done anything?!"

This time, he chuckled. "Exactly," he said with a nod, and she raised an exasperated eyebrow.

She sighed. "What happens if I fail?"

He replies with a calm, "You'd have to retake the class until you pass it, but every time you have to retake it, it gets listed on your permanent record. That's why it's important to pass the class the first time around. It looks bad if you have to take it more than once."

Rannve scowled. "Why should I bother? Once I get the books I need, I'm leaving anyhow." She muttered something about why the Orc didn't seem to care that she was trying to save the world, but Onmund was caught up in her previous words and hardly even noticed.

"You're leaving?" he asked hesitantly, unsure as to how he manages to rein in his voice. As it is, the tone was already a little louder than normal for the quiet little study hall they're sitting in, and a few students threw him nasty looks for disrupting the quiet. He barely noticed. "So you…you don't actually _want_ to learn magic? You're just using the College as a means to an end?"

She stared at him for a long moment and then raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Using the College? Just like the College is using me to gain popularity and brag to the rest of Skyrim that the Dragonborn is a student here?" She watches him pause, watches his face pale a little bit, and sighs. "I'm trying to save the world, Onmund. I'll probably end up dying in the process. The last few months I've got left, I want to spend them out _there_. Not cooped up in these stuffy buildings trying to prove to some idiot Orc that he can trust me."

Onmund stared at her. She was peering out the window at the blue sky. From this vantage point, one could barely see the frozen ocean lapping at the shore far, far below them, but it didn't matter what the view was like. All that mattered as the fact that there was blue sky and fresh air and no walls surrounding her out there in the wild.

He had this terrible feeling that no matter what Rannve did to prove herself, Urag wouldn't hand over his precious books so easily. He couldn't just go and get them himself either; Urag would see right through that sort of deception. The librarian wasn't exactly open to being bartered with. The only way they could get those books at this point would be to ask the Arch Mage for assistance. Which was impossible because Onmund had never spoken to the Arch Mage and said mage was extremely elusive and rarely seen walking around the campus. That only left them with on other option.

They'd have to steal the books.

The thought galled him, and he was rather unwilling to suggest it to Rannve. She'd probably accept it at face value and not judge him for even thinking of the crime, but still. Onmund had never stolen a thing in his life. And messing with Urag quite honestly made him shiver with dread. That Orc could be scary.

He would keep quiet for now. For all he knew, Rannve had already thought of that and wanted to go the honest route. And if he kept quiet, he could continue helping her. It was a tedious project (she was obviously more of a hands-on type of learner) but he enjoyed their quiet little evenings spent pouring over textbooks and developing theories. Er. Well, he did that part. She mainly just watched and tried not to yawn.

So far they'd spent the better half of the week on this new schedule. Rannve would meet him in one of the little studying alcoves off the Hall of Elements and they would set up, dragging textbooks onto the table and propping up inkwells and parchment. They shared many of the same classes, so Onmund already knew what homework she'd been assigned. He had made her keep her own little class schedule, where she'd jot down other assignments in classes he didn't share with her. So far, she'd only used it twice.

So the Dragonborn wasn't much of a student. He'd never expected her to be. Who had time to sit down and read about magical theory when there were dragons to kill and people to save? He didn't judge her lack of knowledge when it came to magic. In fact, he reveled in it. He felt needed. Every time she asked him a question, he would jump to answer her, his geekier side coming out at full force as he explained everything she wanted to know, and even things she didn't. He was honestly surprised when she didn't get impatient for his rambling. Instead she'd just watch him with this amused glint in her eye, as if he was the most fascinating, entertaining creature on the planet. It did wonders for his confidence.

The only issue Onmund was faced with was the indiscreet shows of disappointment from Brelyna and J'zargo. Every time they'd see the two together, Brelyna would get this angry look in her eye and storm off, and J'zargo would shrug at Onmund and follow after her. It was upsetting, but Onmund took refuge in the fact that the Dragonborn herself was starting to seem like a close friend.

Never would he have imagined such a thing to transgress as it had. They put aside time for studying every day, spoke about how magic worked and why her peculiar position gave her an advantage in such matters. And for reasons he could not understand, she would consistently seek him out for matters that had nothing to do with magic or studying. After a while, Onmund found himself expecting her every time he went to lunch. He'd dawdle behind between his classes, knowing she would be coming from the direction of the dormitories at eleven o'clock every day. He hated to admit it, but it seemed he had something of a crush on her. Not the hero-worshipping infatuation he'd possessed before, but something much more innocent and wondrous.

It hardly came as a surprise to him, but he'd be lying if it didn't make him just a little frightened. Nothing good came from falling for a hero like her, right? He'd only get his heart broken into a million irreplaceable shards…but the thought of curbing his growing affection was even more distressing.


	10. Blizzard

**A/N: In which Onmund just can't say no to Rannve, despite his moral compass. Not that this surprises him, of course.**

 **Please enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Ten | Blizzard**

It happened several weeks later, the fateful decision that Onmund had unknowingly been waiting for. Rannve had been at the College for a little over two months, and had been acting like an actual student for nearly half of that. (Give or take a few days of many a petulant, 'This is too boring, I'm going for a walk.')

She was in a better habit of actually doing whatever homework was assigned to her (though usually Onmund did most of it as he explained things, something he wasn't entirely sure was planned or not on her part). She actually read the classroom texts, practiced her spellwork (occasionally) and even approached a few of the professors about making up all the work she hadn't done before (on Onmund's suggestion).

If Rannve wasn't considered a student now, she'd kiss a dragon's ass.

"Stop worrying so much," she said to Onmund, who was barely one step behind her as she walked across the snowy courtyard. Her face was set with eager anticipation. His was set in what she had started calling the 'mother hen expression'.

"I can't help it," he said, sounding exasperated. "Urag can be really grumpy in the mornings – "

"And afternoons and evenings," Rannve interrupted, sending him a raised eyebrow. "It's about time I bother him again. I haven't done so in a whole week. He should accept my student status by now and give me those damned books."

Onmund just groaned.

It wasn't that this was premature. If anything, it was extremely late in coming. Urag had used any excuse fathomable to avoid handing over the precious research materials to Rannve. She could only assume it was because the Orc was a possessive hoarder and possible megalomaniac. He certainly didn't seem overly concerned that the world was about to be 'eaten' by the first born dragon.

The door to the library was thrown open. The sudden noise that echoed through the usually silent library had Urag jumping up from his desk with a growl. There was only one person disrespectful enough to upset his precious domain in such a bold, uncaring way.

"Back again?" he grumbled as Rannve approached. She didn't look much different from the last time he'd seen her. Her state of dress was still distinctly Nordic – plated steel and leather armor with the hint of her sword hilt curving into existence by her side. Her hair was messy, windblown and choppy, though today it was braided back in a mussed up manner. Cold silver eyes blinked at him from beneath a frame of fine auburn eyelashes.

Urag glanced at her companion and rolled his eyes.

Onmund. That daft idiotic student. What was he doing, hanging around this profane woman? Urag had seen them together several times during the last few weeks. The Nord apprentice would follow this woman around like a lost puppy. The smitten look in his eyes made Urag want to vomit.

"I can only guess what this is about," Urag sarcastically muttered to himself, huffing as he sat back down into his chair. The wood creaked with his weight, and Rannve pushed a hip against the desk. She crossed her arms.

"Did you enjoy your reprieve?" she wondered callously. Behind her, Onmund groaned.

"Reprieve?" Urag questioned with a frown.

Her eyebrow jolted up. "You've had a full week without my pestering."

Urag snorted. "This is probably a shock to someone like the Dragonborn, but your presence in my life is not exactly noticeable."

He pulled a stack of books towards him and fit his quill into his hand. There was work to be done. Filing returned books, finding places for the new shipment that he had recently ordered from the guild headquarters in Cyrodiil, remembering to talk some sense into those idiotic apprentices who were practicing fire spells in the history section yesterday morning. (Useless halfwits.) He didn't have time to listen to this damnable woman complain.

Rannve shrugged. She didn't care if her presence was noticeable or not. All she cared about was getting the books.

"I came to borrow the books on the Elder Scrolls," she said in her most polite voice ever. (It still sounded extremely derisive, but she made an effort.)

Behind her, Onmund tilted his head back and waited. It would be far too easy for the Orc to just hand over the books. Not after he'd been making such a big deal about this. Even Rannve's so-called polite voice wouldn't do the trick, despite it being a tactic she had thus far not used.

Urag stared at her for approximately three seconds before bursting out into laughter.

"You what?!" he demanded around the choking sound of his amusement. (It was really quite a scary noise.) Rannve's face immediately grew dark.

She snarled, leaned over the desk, and said in a low pitched voice, "I really don't think you're aware of the dire results should my mission fail. If I don't kill Alduin, everything in Skyrim will be decimated, including your precious little library. I need information on the Elder Scrolls if you want to live to see your old age."

Onmund sighed.

Urag glared.

"Are you threatening me?" the Orc growled, and Rannve let out an exasperated sound and ran her fingers through her hair.

" _Threatening_ _you?"_ she asked incredulously. "I'm informing you what will happen if I don't get my hands on those books!"

She decided right then and there that she loathed Orcs and their stupid stubborn pride.

Urag snorted and went back to his work. He got about two words in before Rannve hooked her finger around the edge of the parchment and dragged it out from under his quill. She would not have this ridiculous Orc ignore her. Not when she was actually trying to do her duty for once in her life.

Figures. The moment she actually wanted to save the world was the moment she ran into trouble.

"Look, Nord," Urag snarled, standing up with a creak of his chair. He leaned over the desk with a terribly frightening glower etched into his face. It would have easily sent Onmund cowering, but Rannve merely blinked at him, unimpressed.

"I've proved that I'm a student here," Rannve insisted angrily. "I'm passing every class and – "

"Where are your College robes, then?" Urag demanded, glancing down at her armor with distaste. "You claim to be a student here, but I don't see any efforts made on your part. I only loan my books out to students, so _scram,_ Nord."

Rannve gaped at him before her fury easily overtook her several moments later. She growled at him. Her silver eyes gleamed like spun metallic thread, shooting into his with a force to be reckoned with, but Urag barely looked fazed at the sight she made.

"You'll regret this," Rannve muttered. "When the College tumbles down into the sea and all your books become fodder for the sharks, you'll regret not helping me."

She pushed off of the desk and turned, battling down the very stark desire to Shout fire into a nearby shelf of books.

Onmund followed hastily as she pushed open the library doors, walking faster as she gulped down cold breaths of winter air. Her blood was racing, boiling. Her anger was near to exploding, and Rannve struggled to keep it controlled. Easier said than done.

"Let's go speak with the Arch-Mage," Onmund suggested as he followed her into the courtyard. He was slightly anxious about her demeanor (she looked about ready to Shout the College from its natural pedestal above the sea). "The Head Librarian can't keep books away from students, and you've proven yourself one several times over."

But Rannve just shook her head and bitterly spat, "The Arch-Mage won't help me. Not now. No…my only hope is to steal the damn things and get out of this accursed hold."

Onmund didn't like the sound of that. Not only was stealing dangerous should she get caught, but the thought of her leaving so soon made his heart thump painfully in his chest. He didn't want her to leave yet. It was selfish of him, he knew, but he couldn't help it.

"Er, maybe you should think about this first," he jumped in, boldly reaching for her arm to halt her fast paced walk. She turned to face him impatiently and he rushed to say, "What will people say when they hear that the Dragonborn stole something? Besides, Urag never leaves the library. He practically _sleeps_ there."

He hoped he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. Already, an embarrassed blush had begun to creep up onto his cheeks. He looked up at Rannve imploringly, hoping that she was able to realize the sensibility behind his words…but she merely looked contemplative, like she was musing over something else entirely.

"He never leaves? Hmm…I think I have something that might knock him out for a bit…" she turned on her heel and started for the dormitories.

Onmund bit back a startled choke and hurried after her.

"You can't just _knock out_ the Head Librarian!" he hissed as quietly as he could. There were other students milling around and he certainly didn't want them to know what they were talking about. They could get expelled for such a thing.

Rannve didn't even seem to hear him, so he insisted, "Think of the repercussions! Rannve – listen to me. _Please."_

The embarrassingly desperate plea seemed to catch her attention. She stopped and turned to look at him. The tired, weary look in her eyes made him stumble, and she pushed him quietly into the shadows of a nearby alcove.

"Onmund," she murmured, spearing him with a look that might've spun his imagination for a loop, had it been under different circumstances. She sighed and said, "You speak of repercussions as if they come only from the College, but think of what will happen if I don't complete my quest. Alduin must be stopped. Already the dragon sightings are getting more and more frequent. This is the only way."

Her fingers tightened on his arms, as if she meant to press her insistence into him and force him to understand. But she needn't have bothered even trying, for he _did_ understand. As much as he disagreed with this particular method, as well as allowing her to walk out of his life just as suddenly as she'd walked in – he knew that she needed those books. She had a fate like no other and it could not be stopped, not until she killed Alduin once and for all.

"There's always another way," he mumbled at her, hardly expecting her to respond. That was why he felt so surprised when she did, and so ominously at that.

With a soft sigh, Rannve whispered, "Perhaps, but I don't have time to figure out what it is. Are you with me or not?"

She wouldn't drag Onmund into this mess – not unless he wanted to be dragged into it. She couldn't deny that she wouldn't mind the company though, despite the moral part of her, which was screaming out to leave him well enough alone.

But Onmund, quiet apprentice though he was, merely set his jaw and answered, "I'm with you, Rannve. I just hope you know what you're doing."

She smirked arrogantly. Breaking into a library to steal a couple of books? Please. It would be as easy as breathing.


	11. Muffle

**A/N: In which Rannve drags Onmund into stealing the books she needs, and he provides a surprisingly decent distraction...though, as Rannve comes to discover, he does not make the best thief. Please enjoy this chapter, I had a lot of fun writing it ;)**

 **I'll be leaving to attend a wedding for a few days, so updates will be put on hold until I return!**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven | Muffle**

At midnight, Rannve was as prepared as she'd ever be for a heist. She had changed out of her noisy steel plated armor and was now favoring a leather outfit that she looked surprisingly comfortable in. Onmund tried not to notice the way it hugged her form just so, but once her saw her step out into the dim light of the dormitory hall, it was rather difficult not to steal glances at her every chance he got.

He was, after all, unaccustomed to being around a woman such as her. College robes didn't exactly do any wonders for the female form. (Or the male one, to be honest.)

She had plated her hair back and twisted it at the base of her neck. She wore several daggers on her person – why, Onmund didn't want to know and decided not to ask. They weren't breaking into a particularly dangerous place (though Urag would certainly be dangerous if he had any inkling as to what they were about to do). Besides, he was a firm believer of the phrase 'ignorance is bliss', especially when it came to her.

Little did he know he would soon eat those words.

"Come along," Rannve said after sweeping her eyes over his form. It was a critical glance, nothing more, but Onmund felt his cheeks flare to life under all the attention. He was in over his head with this one and he knew it.

Together, they quietly left the dormitory and ventured out into the cold, snowy night. There were still some lights on in the main hall, but they weren't any cause for alarm. The Hall of the Elements was often lit up during all hours, and sometimes there were students inside, doing last minute studying and spell-casting hours after everyone else was in bed. Rannve never understood why one would lose sleep over a test, but then she'd never considered herself to be much of a student either.

Regardless, it was for this reason that the two of them didn't bother sneaking across the small campus. Though there wasn't anyone outside, it wasn't particularly strange for them to be awake at this hour.

"How good are you at staying undetected?" Rannve asked once they reached the doors to the main building. Her hand was on the doorknob, but she didn't turn it quite yet. She looked over at Onmund with a serious, contemplative look in her eyes.

He shuffled beneath the gaze and mumbled, "Uh…if by that you mean sneaking around like a thief, then not very good." Rannve hummed in agreement and he felt his cheeks redden.

"Thought so," she sighed, and chewed on her lip for a moment. He tried not to notice, but couldn't deny that his eyes strayed to her mouth more than once. His was probably one man in a million who had a childish crush on the Dragonborn, but he couldn't stop himself from falling harder and harder with every second spent in her presence.

In a way, he couldn't imagine why that was. Rannve wouldn't be his normal choice when it came to the female gender. In fact, he often found himself preferring women with daintier hands and a personality to match. (Mages came to mind, naturally.) But she just had this _way_ about her – it was difficult to describe – a certain pull that he could neither deny nor ignore.

When she looked at him again, she had a musing look in her eye.

"You'll make a half decent look-out, then. Stay outside the library door and signal me if anyone is coming," she told him, and before he could protest, Rannve opened the door and stepped inside the main hall.

Onmund had no choice but to follow as he hissed, "I still don't think this is a good idea," at her back, as if he thought it would make a difference. He knew it wouldn't and she knew it too, if the amused smirk she sent him over her shoulder had anything to say on the matter.

"Every thief needs a good look-out, Onmund," was all she said. She swiveled around, grabbed him by the shoulders, and thrust him beside the library door with a firm nod. "See? You look perfectly nondescript."

He frowned at her, deciding not to take that as a compliment.

She opened the library door and was about to step through it when she turned back to look at him. "Remember, signal if anyone tries to come inside."

He didn't even have time to respond before she disappeared. He glowered at the door and slid his back against the wall, hoping that he wouldn't have to wrack his brain for a decent signal should anything happen. What kind of signal did she even want, anyway? He sighed. It was a good thing he decided to become a mage rather than a thief, because he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to make a living sneaking around in the dark. He wasn't particularly surprised that Rannve was better at it though. She seemed to be better at nearly everything, whether it was because of her Dragonborn prowess or the arrogant way she needed to know something about every little topic imaginable.

Inside the library, Rannve was giving the room a thorough look-over to determine if the sulking Head Librarian was in sight. It didn't take very long realize that he hadn't yet gone to bed and was at that moment grumbling about stupid apprentices and their aptitude for disturbing his precious books. It seemed that was all Urag bothered to complain about.

What a scintillating life he led.

Sneaking through the library was so easy that Rannve wondered why she hadn't just tried it weeks ago. Urag's angry mumbling did wonders in covering up any stray sound she might have made as she weaved her way through stacks of books and towering shelves. Her thieves guild training was coming in handy. Urag's naivety certainly helped as well. For such an aggravating old Orc, Urag was surprisingly blind to the ways of the world. Or at least to the thieving world, of which Rannve happened to be fairly proficient in.

When she was close enough to see the desk clearly, she glanced around at the shelves behind it. Urag wouldn't have put those books just anywhere, not when she'd been badgering him about them for the past few weeks. He'd want them close by to ensure they weren't missing. They were probably in one of the locked bookcases behind the desk.

Now she just had to figure out how to get to them without being seen. The desk was large enough to hide behind without being caught, but she didn't know how long Urag would wander around his precious library. He was always at his desk at every hour of the day, it seemed, and she could already hear his grumbling getting closer.

Tucking herself into a stack of books and crouching down into the shadows, Rannve studied the locked bookshelves with a contemplative expression etched onto her face. There were three, all of which no doubt contained older, more expensive tomes that required more careful handling than the other books in the library. She doubted she'd have time to open all three of the cases and peruse her way through the many titles contained in each one, so she'd have to try her best to guess at the correct shelf and hope she got it right on her first try.

Of course if Urag had just gone to sleep like everybody else she wouldn't have a problem. Stubborn Orc. What kind of work could he possibly be doing that couldn't wait till morning?

With a shake of her head, Rannve peered out into the library's pulpit, trying to locate the stray librarian. He had his back turned to her and was pouring over a stack of books on one of the tables, appearing very engrossed as he mumbled incoherently to himself. She decided to try her luck while she still had some and silently crept to the desk, keeping an eye on him the whole way. She stopped in front of the middle bookcase and drew out a lockpick.

The center case was always the most cliché of hiding places, and Rannve had a feeling that Urag was just cliché enough to assume it would be safe from prying eyes. After all, she very much doubted he was so suspicious of her that he'd assume she'd try to steal his books. Unless he was keeping an Elder Scroll in there, Rannve knew of no thief who would go out of his way for a few underrated writings from some mentally unstable crackpot from Talos-knows-where.

For the first time that night, she realized how insane she looked right now.

With a roll of her eyes, Rannve broke the lock and glanced over her shoulder. Urag was right where she left him. He'd barely moved an inch.

She turned back to the bookcase and, as quickly as she could, ran her eyes over the titles, keeping a look out for any that contained the words 'Elder Scrolls'. There was only just one problem: no such books had that title.

Rannve grit her teeth and shut the case. A quick glance behind her told her that she still had time remaining, so she moved to the left bookshelf and broke the lock as quickly as she could. It was a useless endeavor though. The books she searched for were not in there, either.

She had a feeling they weren't even in the library.

Silently fuming, Rannve turned away from the case and huddled behind Urag's desk. Her legs were starting to cramp up from crouching in the same place for so long and she knew she should probably just get out of here before Urag discovered her. He make sure that she'd never see those books if he caught her sneaking around like this.

She couldn't make it out of the library fast enough, brimming with impatience as she was. Urag didn't appear to be wise to her presence at all, though, which was probably the only good thing to come from the experience.

"Onmund," she hissed quietly as she poked her head out of the door. Her unlikely accomplice jumped up in surprise when her voice suddenly cut through the silence of the hallway, and he put a hand over his heart with a frown.

"By the Nine – " he began, no doubt ready to scold her for scaring him like that. She might've found amusement in it had she been of the mind to, but her impatience won out.

"I need you," she told him, effectively cutting him off. He immediately stilled and stared at her.

"Huh?" he stumbled, then blushed. Talos, he sounded like an imbecile, and he was probably thinking like one too, but a declaration like that would derail _any_ man.

She rolled her eyes at him and said, "Just come here. I need you to distract Urag for me while I sneak into his quarters."

Onmund's stare turned horrific. "Sneak into Urag's quarters?! _Are you insane?"_

Rannve sighed as if he was being entirely ridiculous about this and said, "Obviously. Now follow me." Before he could argue, she disappeared back into the library.

Onmund ran a hand over his face and sighed. This was not going to end well.

…He followed her anyway.

When he got to the top of the stairs, Rannve reached over to grab him and thrust him into the library foyer, a little off to the side so as to keep him away from Urag for as long as possible. He let out a small grumble when his back hit the hard stone wall and glowered at her.

Rannve just gave him a look and pointed to the floor, silently telling him to stay right where he was. His glower turned into a glare but he didn't argue. He was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

Urag's bedroom was in the library (unsurprisingly – it probably pained him to be away from his precious books). Fortunately, one could get to said quarters from the foyer where they were currently standing. _Unfortunately_ , there weren't exactly a lot of places to hide in the foyer, and they were definitely on borrowed time by now. Sneaking around the library was one thing, but breaking into Urag's bedroom was quite another. The repercussions should they get caught…Rannve didn't really want to think about it.

Instead she just turned her attention to the door and quickly stuck a lockpick into the lock, twisting it around until she heard the telltale sound of the lock breaking. Onmund watched her as she did, though he kept most of his attention to the library to ensure that Urag wasn't on his way over. He tried not to wonder at how proficient Rannve appeared to be when it came to breaking into places. He had a feeling he didn't really want to know.

Still, he was reluctantly impressed that she was so good at such a thing. And, even more so, that she was so silent as she crept inside. If he hadn't been watching her out of the corner of his eye, he wouldn't have even realized she was there at all.

Urag's chambers were tiny. There was just enough room for a four-poster bed, a writing table, and a dresser, all of which were shoved against the walls to optimize the space. He had one window that overlooked the courtyard and was scarcely decorated with heavy maroon curtains that had seen better days. Other than that, there wasn't much else.

Rannve got to work immediately, going to the writing desk first. It was locked, but the lock was so flimsy and delicate that it took her mere seconds to get into. There were stacks of parchment inside, some stray pencils, and an unfinished letter – but no books.

She turned to the dresser next, opening ever drawer and feeling around for any objects hidden within the clothing. Nothing. Nothing underneath the dresser, either, when she knelt down to look. And nothing behind the pillows or hidden in the sheets (thank Talos for that, at least). She was beginning to wonder if he even had the blasted books at all when she decided she'd better be as thorough as possible while she still had time, and she knelt down to check under the mattress.

And – there. Rannve had a positively savage grin on her face when she extracted two books from between the bedding.

 _Effects of the Elder Scrolls_ and _Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls_. That paranoid bastard.

She smirked and tucked the books into her satchel, making sure they were secure before hurrying back to the door and closing it behind her on the way out. A quick flick of her wrist ensured that the lock was back in place, and when she turned back around to the foyer, she realized very quickly that had she remained inside a moment longer she would have been caught.

Urag's figure could be seen walking toward them, though his head was tilted back mid-yawn and his eyes were closed to the sight of them huddled together outside his personal quarters. Onmund turned to stare at Rannve with wide, anxious eyes. She returned the look wholeheartedly.

Her luck seemed to have run out…but she was nothing if not a quick-thinker.

In less than a second, Rannve was turning into him, grabbing the front of Onmund's robes, and pushing her lips against his.

He did what any man would do in such a situation – he flailed.

"Kiss me back, you idiot," she hissed at him, though he barely even heard her over the sudden thumping of his heart as it tried to beat out of his chest.

He had scarcely managed to reach up to clasp his hands around her face when Urag's voice cut through the hectic silence of their abrupt intimacy.

"What in _Oblivion_ are you two doing?" he demanded, with no small amount of disgust.

Onmund rather expected Rannve to pull away at such a question, but to his surprise (and enjoyment), she remained right where she was, moving her lips against his with a slow sort of passion that had him trembling against her. He wasn't entirely sure if his trembling had to do with his own fear of being caught or of the way she was so perfectly cultivating their kiss into something that felt immeasurably more intimate than it actually was.

It probably didn't matter – _shouldn't_ matter – because he knew that this was only a distraction and not born from any feelings on her part. But Talos take him if he didn't suddenly yearn for the latter.

Rannve quietly ended the kiss, slowly breaking her lips from his and glancing up at him with something that looked like adoration in her eyes. She was a really good actress. Even Onmund himself was rather swept up in the lie.

With a small sigh, as if being interrupted was the worst possible thing imaginable (Onmund was of the mind to agree), Rannve turned to look at Urag. Her expression fell flat as she quirked up an eyebrow and drawled, "What does it _look_ like we're doing?"

If it was possible for an Orc to turn red with anger, Urag would've been crimson by now. Instead, he was turning an odd greenish purple color that looked extremely scary in the dim light.

"Well why are you doing it in _my library,"_ he demanded, his voice a grind of displeasure and anger.

Rannve just shuffled closer to Onmund, keeping her arm latched around his waist and her free hand resting on his chest. She frowned at the librarian and said, "This is public property. Besides, I can kiss Onmund wherever I please, and it's nice and quiet in here."

Onmund's cheeks turned an impressive rosy hue at her declaration. He tried very hard not to appear overly intimidated at their current circumstance, but he doubted he made a good impression.

Urag just looked disgusted and didn't even try to hide it. The librarian's eyes swept over Onmund for a brief moment before he sent them both a glare that would have scattered an army. It definitely would have scattered Onmund, had Rannve's arm not been secured around his waist. His knees felt shaky, like he might fall at any moment.

"Just – " Urag growled and said, "Get out of here before I call the Arch-Mage."

Rannve laughed. Onmund wanted to tell her to shut up, but then she wouldn't give up the chance to harass the librarian even now.

"I doubt the Arch-Mage would bother concerning himself with a few students at this time of night. It's not like we're doing anything wrong by being here. The library's open 24 hours, after all." She gave Urag an imperious look and he turned greener.

But, thankfully, she didn't seem to want to push her luck anymore than that. With a simper, Rannve pulled Onmund toward the door as she said, "I suppose we could always find a spot in the Hall of the Elements though. Come along, Onmund."

They made a quick escape before Urag could complain any further, though Rannve sent him a smirk over her shoulder before they shut the door behind them.

The moment they reached the bottom of the stairs, Onmund let out a sigh of relief and slumped against the wall. He ran a hand through his hair with a shaky exhalation and mumbled, "Talos. That was…" he trailed off.

That was what? Horrific? The scariest thing he'd ever done in his life? Absolutely amazing? He looked at Rannve, only to see her staring at him with a wide smirk etched over her face. He immediately blushed a deep red and she laughed.

"Yes, well, it was pretty exhilarating, wasn't it?" she asked, and his heart gave a rebellious thump in his chest.

Exhilarating. Now that was a good word for it. Her kiss was extremely exhilarating – all the more so because it was so unexpected –

"Breaking into places always gets the adrenaline going," she added, and at once Onmund's pleasure deflated.

Ah. She was referring to the actual break-in…not the kiss. Of course she wouldn't think that kissing him was exhilarating. What a silly thing to assume. She was the Dragonborn, after all. She probably had dozens of exhilarating kisses with much more exciting men.

"Come on, let's get back to my quarters. We should read through these books and take some notes just in case Urag discovers they're missing," Rannve said, patting her satchel where the books were hidden. Onmund grumbled in agreement, only half listening. He was too busy wondering what kinds of _exhilarating_ kisses she'd had.

It was a dangerous thought and he knew it, but he also knew that, at this point, there was no way he could stop himself from wondering. Not now, when he had felt her mouth on his and tasted her – not when she had answered one of his foolish daydreams in a matter of moments.

He was in a lot deeper than he'd originally thought.


	12. Mayhem

**A/N: In which the stolen books leave a lot to be desired, and Rannve is faced with the repercussions of her decision.**

 **Reviews = love :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve | Mayhem**

They spent the rest of the night in Rannve's quarters, doing something much less exhilarating than breaking into places and sharing abrupt kisses. No, instead of all that, they spent the night _studying_.

It was terrible.

"Talos, this is dull," Rannve muttered as she turned a page of _Effects of the Elder Scrolls._ The author had begun the book normally enough, but it was fairly clear that he had descended into some sort of insanity in the later chapters. Most likely because he had opened an Elder Scroll without truly understanding what it did to people. She might've enjoyed reading about the crazy old man's descent into madness had she actually understood what she was reading. The writing certainly reflected its author's instability.

The sound of her voice dragged Onmund out of the half-conscious daze he'd been in as he poured over the other book. _Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls_ was equally boring, if not more so. It was exactly as described: a set of ruminations and musings on what the Elder Scrolls are capable of doing and how one might use the ancient magic. The author of that one, some madman by the name of Septimus Signus, was basically just rambling on in circles. Even Onmund had to admit that he was not in the mood for studying, especially when his mind kept drifting back to the feel of Rannve's lips against his.

"Mmhmm," he agreed after a drawn out pause. The notebook he was filling with some of Signus's more important musings was deplorably empty.

Rannve sighed and tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. "I can't believe I went out of my way to get a hold of these books. If they actually help me at all, I'll be _shocked._ That bastard Orc…" She glared up at the wooden beams above her.

Urag was seriously such a prick for withholding these useless narratives for so long.

Onmund glanced over at her and sighed. He was situated at her rarely used writing desk. He assumed it was rarely used because this was _Rannve's_ room, and the only time he'd seen her sit still was during lectures when she absolutely had to. Half the time she didn't even go to those, either. Apparently she believed in more practical approaches to learning.

Rannve herself was sitting on her bed, legs stretched out over the mattress as she leaned back on the threadbare pillows. She'd wriggled her way out of her leather cuirass when they'd first entered the room several hours before, and was looking fairly comfortable in the worn cotton tunic she had on beneath the armor. The book she claimed was so dull was lying on the end of the bed where she had tossed it moments before.

Onmund reached for it, flipping through the pages and reading one of the paragraphs. If possible, it seemed that the author of this book was just as mad as Signus. He pursed his mouth and shut the book.

"Was this your only lead?" he asked tentatively, knowing now that it was definitely not a strong one. They'd never get any useful information from these books. To be honest, Onmund barely knew what his own book was even about and he was currently on chapter fifteen.

Rannve grumbled, "Yes. Arngeir told me to come to the College to find answers. He didn't tell me it would take so damned long." Or be so fruitless.

She kicked her legs out into a stretch and yawned. Her room had no windows, but it had to be nearly daybreak by now. They've been at it for hours.

"…Arngeir?" Onmund wondered idly as he checked over his notes. To be honest, said notes were just as incoherent as the book he'd been trying to decipher. It was a load of gibberish.

Rannve hummed and murmured, "Greybeard." The single word explained pretty much everything Onmund was asking and more.

He looked up to stare at her, once again feeling the sting of amazement shudder through him. He still couldn't quite believe that he had befriended the Dragonborn. That he'd _kissed_ the Dragonborn – Talos, what a thought! He kissed the hero of Skyrim!

She noticed him staring and raised an eyebrow, feeling very amused when Onmund's cheeks turned red. He blushed so easily, it was almost endearing.

"What is it?" she asked, and he stumbled a little.

"Uh…well, nothing really. Just…wow. A Greybeard? What are they like? I heard they don't usually speak to people," he said eagerly, gushing a tiny bit (okay, a lot). He couldn't help it! The Greybeards were legendary! They've been a part of Skyrim's culture for centuries now, and people rarely ever saw them. They didn't exactly open their doors to strangers just for kicks.

Rannve chuckled, flipping over and burying her face into her pillow. She closed her eyes sleepily and murmured, "Mmm…I expect that if Arngeir used a normal tone instead of whispering to me all the time, he'd accidentally kill me with his Voice."

Onmund gaped at her and pointed out, "But _you_ can talk normally."

She cracked an eye open to look at him. Oddly enough, he rather thought she looked a bit more draconic when she was tired. Maybe it was merely the half lidded way she looked at him though.

"Yeah. But I'm Dragonborn. That makes me special," she smirked, as if that was all there was to it and didn't require any further explanation. Onmund rolled his eyes at her.

"Anyway," he said a moment later, "I think we should probably return these books. There's no point keeping them around when they're not getting us anywhere."

He was stacking the books on top of each other when a foreign but painfully familiar voice suddenly drawled, "I think that would be the proper course of action, considering that they're stolen property."

Onmund jumped up a mile high in his sudden shock, and Rannve wasn't far behind, pulling herself into a sitting position within moments of hearing the accusatory voice at her doorway. The sleep was entirely gone from her eyes, which widened almost comically at the sight of the Arch-Mage himself standing in the threshold. Damn doorless rooms. Whoever heard of bedroom not having doors, anyway?!

"Arch-Mage!" Onmund cried, jumping up and pushing the books onto the desk. It was too late to hide them now anyway. The Arch-Mage obviously knew they had them in their possession.

Damn that possessive Orc! How did he realize they were gone so quickly? What did he do, take them out and serenade them every night before bed?

"I'll take those books now," the Arch-Mage said in a clipped voice, reaching out a hand to where Onmund stood and impatiently wriggling his fingers. As Onmund hurriedly set the books into the outstretched hand, Savos Aren turned to Rannve with a piercing look and said, "I expected more from the hero of Skyrim, I must admit. More from my own _students_ , too." He cast Onmund a sharp glance, and the Nord deflated a little. "You two will meet with me in my quarters after breakfast to discuss what will be done about this. Is that clear?"

He turned back to Rannve as if he anticipated her to just shrug off his order. A month ago, she probably would have. But after she'd dragged Onmund into this, Rannve felt somehow responsible all of the sudden. It was a very strange feeling, but not one she could easily bypass when Onmund was looking so lost. Like a kicked puppy…

She sighed and nodded. "Fine. We'll be there."

The Arch-Mage tilted his head judgmentally before apparently deciding that her word seemed adequate enough, and he nodded. "Good. Don't be late." Then he turned on his heel and disappeared back into the hallway without another word.

The moment he was gone, Onmund sagged down into the chair with a groan, covering his face with his hands. Rannve just sighed and lowered herself back onto her bed. She didn't really care that she'd gotten caught. What she cared about was that Onmund was caught along with her. _He_ was the student here, after all. He'd be the one to deal with any long term repercussions. And he'd been the one to try to talk her out of it, too.

She sighed again and looked over at Onmund. His face was pale and drawn, and he was clenching his hands in his lap tightly. The knuckles were stark white.

She flopped back down on her bed and said, "Don't worry. I can talk my way out of anything, Onmund. You'll be fine."

Her unlikely accomplice didn't appear convinced. He gave a tiny smile that didn't reach anywhere near his eyes and sighed. "I hope you're right, Rannve. I think I'm going to try to get a few hours of sleep. I'll…see you soon, I suppose."

She hummed in response and watched him leave, shoulders drooped. She doubted he'd be getting any sleep. Knowing him, he'd probably just toss and turn during the next few hours.

She wasn't wrong. By the time breakfast rolled around and the other apprentices rushed off to classes, Onmund had barely gotten even a few minutes of rest. His mind was too active with worry, running through every possible outcome that the Arch-Mage might bestow upon them. Part of him hoped that Rannve would get the brunt of the punishment – the other part scorned the thought and left him ashamed to have even conceived of it at all. They were in this together and it would be beyond unfair for him to get away unscathed. He'd probably feel even guiltier if that were to happen.

Rannve came to his door just as he was fixing his hair and making sure he didn't look like he hadn't slept a wink. It was a lost cause of course – his eyes were rimmed with bruises and there were shadows beneath them to boot, making him appear more like a corpse than a living human. When he looked up at Rannve, who lingered at the threshold of his room, he felt just a little annoyed to see that she looked just as normal as anything. Eyes shining, skin glowing…knowing her as he did now, Onmund wouldn't be surprised if she had slept just fine. She never seemed to worry about anything.

"Ready to go?" she asked, crossing her arms over her armored chest. Once again she had forgone the customary College robes in favor of her steel and leather garb, though this time she had added a fur mantle over her shoulders as well. With her set of knives at her side and her auburn hair pulled back into a messy braid, Rannve looked more like a wild warrior maiden than a meek apprentice mage. Fortunately (or not), Onmund happened to fit the latter role well enough for the both of them.

He sighed and said, "Yes. Might as well get this over with. I'm sure the Arch-Mage is waiting."

Rannve nodded in agreement and pushed off from the threshold, disappearing back into the hall. He sighed again before following her, trying to hold his head high despite the crawling desire to hang it low. He wished he was stronger, more courageous and less cautious to the whims and opinions of others, more like the vagabond Dragonborn that he was currently following out into the snowy courtyard.

It was cold. A sharp wind cut through the outside hallways and had his breath puffing out in front of him. The walk across the courtyard was silent save for that wind, which felt piercing and uncomfortable as it battered through them. Onmund was stepping up to the great doors of the Hall of the Elements when he felt Rannve's hand on his arm, tugging him back to her side.

He glanced over at her with a raised brow, but she merely said, "Whatever happens, Onmund…you'll have a place by my side if you so desire it."

Even as she said it, Rannve thought it might sound a little callous, a bit arrogant even. She was, after all, the one who put him in this position to begin with. That he would even want a place at her side after all of this would make her very surprised indeed, but she also did not know what the future held for them. She could only hope that the Arch-Mage would be lenient towards her friend.

Onmund just smiled and replied, "Thank you, Rannve. Perhaps I will be taking you up on that offer."

He wasn't sure if the idea sounded good or not – in his own opinion, the wilds were no place for a man like him. He doubted he had enough experience in the arcane arts to truly earn a place at the Dragonborn's side. He was certainly no battlemage.

As to whether he appreciated the offer in the first place, he also did not know. A part of him felt the smallest bit betrayed at how the events of the past night had transgressed, and he disliked the idea of abandoning everything he had worked so hard for. He had sacrificed so much to get into this College. If he were to be kicked out of it, he didn't know where he'd go or what he'd do with himself.

She didn't smile back, not really. The look she sent him was more of a grimace than a smile, and he thought it fit rather well with the current circumstances. He cleared his throat and turned back to the door, throwing his shoulders back before stepping inside. The courage he was hoping to garner trickled very slowly into him, so subtly that it barely felt like anything at all. He hoped that, by the time he reached the Arch-Mage's quarters, he would look less meek and more strong. At least that was the image he was attempting to cultivate.

Whether he succeeded or not, he didn't know. It seemed that this morning was full of confusing thoughts and knowledge just out of reach. When him and Rannve knocked on the Arch-Mage's door, he felt even less prepared to face his Headmaster than ever before. The man had always intimidated him.

"Enter," Arch-Mage Aren's dry voice demanded, and Onmund glanced behind his shoulder to exchange a look with Rannve. She nodded to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder silently, probably knowing the mixed emotions currently running through him.

When they entered the room, the Arch Mage was sitting in the very same chair he'd been in when Rannve had met him the first time, after Saarthal. Unlike the first time though, Savos Aren didn't wait around to speak. This time, he stood up immediately and walked toward them with his hands clasped behind his back and a stern expression on his face.

"I've already spoken with Head Librarian Urag, but I thought it would be wise to hear your side of the story," he said without waiting, abruptly diving into the conversation headfirst. Onmund shuffled awkwardly on his feet while Rannve took a place at his side, hooking her fingers around the hilt of a dagger nonchalantly.

"There's not much to tell," Rannve said with a shrug. "Urag kept refusing to lend me the books so I checked them out myself. It wasn't really stealing, seeing as they're property of the College and I am, technically, a student."

Onmund shuffled again, wishing that Rannve could, for once, be a little more diplomatic. Though she wasn't _wrong_ – the books weren't privately owned and she was a student by right – she could at least _try_ to explain things with a bit more finesse.

The Arch-Mage didn't look entirely impressed. "Had you come to me with the problem, we could have worked something out between yourself and Urag. I'm afraid the real issue I have with this, however, is not only that you took the books, but that you broke into Urag's _personal_ chambers. I find myself rather surprised that you would drag one of my students into your scheme, Dragonborn, and that Onmund would allow himself to be used in such a way."

The wording of his sentence made Onmund cringe. He didn't think the term 'used' was truly correct. As meek as he was, he wouldn't have allowed anyone to _use_ him – no, he helped Rannve because he wanted to, not because he was forced to.

"I wasn't dragged into her scheme – I volunteered for it," he blurted out, and then cringed again because it rather sounded like he was confessing to some abhorrent crime.

Rannve sighed, as if she thought so too. "What Onmund means to say is that he was merely helping me. Apparently, he's the only one in this College who understands what's at stake should I fail to defeat Alduin. Your Head Librarian seems to be fairly clueless as to the repercussions."

Talos, why did Rannve have to be so blatant and callous?! Onmund rubbed his forehead.

The Arch-Mage shook his head and took a breath. "I am trying to be fair about this, but I'm finding it difficult to remain unbiased. Unfortunately the College Board is aware of this transgression and expects punishment of some kind. Therefore I've decided that temporary suspension is justifiable in the wake of your actions. Anything less would incite their ire, you understand."

Onmund's mouth dropped open, and Rannve sighed. Suspension? For bringing a few books back to their rooms? Books that weren't even private property? Divines…that sounded far stricter than necessary, but apparently the College Board (and Urag, no doubt) thought it was perfectly acceptable.

"Onmund had very little to do with this, Arch-Mage – " Rannve began to say, but she was cut off when Savos Aren put his hand up.

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. With the way things are going here at the College these days, you should be happy that you didn't get a more severe punishment. A two month suspension is the best I can give you and that will be the end of it."

Rannve gritted her teeth angrily. Onmund merely stood there hoping that he didn't fall to the floor with his shaky legs. He felt both weightless and heavy at the same time – a stark feeling that had some strange blend of surreal subjugation to it.

After a moment of just standing there staring at each other, Rannve frowned and reached over to clasp her hand around Onmund's arm. The strength behind her action was perhaps what kept him from staggering towards the exit when she turned them in that direction. He couldn't entirely be sure, as it felt like he wasn't fully there.

"Dragonborn," the Arch-Mage called before they reached the door. Rannve stopped and looked over her shoulder, her expression set into a glower that had Savos Aren sighing. "The author of one of those books, a man by the name of Septimus Signus, lives just north of here in a small outpost in the ice fields. I would suggest visiting him for further leads. I doubt you got much information from his rambling, but perhaps you'll get somewhere if you speak to him face to face."

He paused, and then added, "Contrary to your beliefs, there are some here at the College who are concerned about this dragon problem. I hope your travels are successful."

Rannve, stiff with anger at their punishment, could only give him a tense nod before silently pulling Onmund the rest of the way to the door.

This was certainly not the kind of disciplinary action that she'd expected. She didn't care about being suspended herself, seeing as she hadn't planned on staying here anyway. But for Onmund's sake, her anger felt righteous and burned all the hotter. She only hoped that, by the end of the two months, the Arch-Mage would make good on his promise to end the suspension so that her companion could return to his rightful place.


	13. Stoneflesh

**A/N: In which plans are made regarding the two month suspension, and Onmund once again finds himself in new territory where Rannve is concerned, though he's starting to realize that this should not be at all surprising.**

 **Thanks again to all who has reviewed and followed! I know it's more of a slow burn story, but now that Onmund and Rannve have been suspended, they're about to embark on a new journey that will set things in motion. From here on, their relationship will become more of a focal point as they get to know each other better.**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen | Stoneflesh**

Onmund was silent the entire way back to the dorms. He hardly seemed to know what to do with himself. He was wringing his hands and frowning so mightily that Rannve would have preferred to just leave him be…except that was not possible today. They would be expected to leave the campus by nightfall, and plans had to be made.

Rannve, at least, knew where the next step of her journey would take her. The thought of traveling north into the treacherous ice fields did not please her, but she could not return to the Blades until she had exhausted all her options. She was not sure about Onmund, though.

Once they reached the dormitories and stepped inside, Rannve looked over at her accidental accomplice and slowly said, "…There are rooms at the inn in Winterhold. If you wish, I will pay for your room and board until the suspension is over."

It seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Onmund whirled about to face her, eyes blazing darkly, and demanded, "What about the place at your side that I've apparently earned? Or were those words as empty as the rest of the things you've said?"

She stared at him blankly, and the words he had spoken in anger seemed to make him deflate. A blush crowded over his cheeks and he turned away once more to hurry towards his room. If it was anyone else, Rannve would have allowed them to leave and be done with it. But for a reason entirely unknown to her, Onmund had become important somehow, and instead of leaving him to his own fate, she followed without hesitation.

"I only meant that…if you did not want to…that is, I'll be traveling north and I wasn't sure if you wanted to accompany me," she stumbled, for the first time in, well, forever. She couldn't remember when she last had such trouble getting her words out. It was slightly unnerving. Yet for some reason, his silence was even more so, and Rannve found herself suddenly wishing to be anywhere else than in this cramped little room.

Fighting dragons was so much easier.

Onmund had dragged out a pack from beneath his bed and was unloading his clothes into it. With each addition, his frown seemed to get deeper. He didn't speak for a long minute, but finally grumbled, "I'm not sure if I want to either, but it's not like I have anywhere _else_ to go. Besides, _you're_ the one who got me into this mess."

Sitting in a room for two months, doing nothing but reading and eating while strangers and bards breathed down his neck didn't sound very appealing to him. Yes, it would be warmer than braving the snowy elements up north, but his boredom would eventually win out. It always did.

And she _was_ the one who dragged him into this mess. Maybe not entirely – he certainly was at fault for mooning over her every step and volunteering just to be part of the Dragonborn's escapades. But still. He felt the need to wallow in his self pity for a while until he could allow himself to admit to his own faults.

Rannve seemed perfectly okay with accepting his response though. She just shrugged and agreed automatically, looking neither surprised nor uninterested. He couldn't claim to be surprised at this, either. It seemed that Rannve rarely indulged in any emotions besides arrogance and the occasional burst of mischief.

With a nod, she said, "Alright then. Meet me at the gates at dusk. I've a few things to wrap up before leaving."

With a huff, Onmund mumbled, "Fine." He returned to his packing with gusto, and Rannve didn't linger any longer. She turned on her heel and left his quarters, no doubt venturing back into hers to pack her belongings. The moment she left, Onmund stopped and sighed, long and weary as he glanced toward the doorway where she had stood.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he wondered just what, exactly, he was getting himself into. But the path was already drawn, and he had no choice but to follow it, so he turned back to his bag with another sigh and began refolding most of the garments he had haphazardly tossed into it during his anger fueled rant.

* * *

At dusk, Rannve strolled toward the gates. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, and it cast glimmering shadows across the sea. She had never noticed the sight before, despite having been at the College for some months now. Funny how you only just realize what you're walking away from right when you're about to do it.

Her pack was slung across her shoulder and she was outfitted in her standard steel and leather armor, enchanted for extra warmth, though she hardly needed the enchantment with the thick fur mantle she had slung over her shoulders. She had tied back her hair in a braid that began at her forehead and trailed down the center of her skull. As for weaponry, her customary ebony bow and quiver idled at her back, and at her hips she had two swords that gleamed like dark, burnished steel.

She looked just the same as she always did on her travels, though it didn't stop Onmund from staring as she approached. When she neared him, she tilted her head and stared right back.

He was wearing his standard robes, though he had slung a thick fur cloak about his shoulders and had switched his cloth boots for a pair much better suited for travel. His hood was hiked up over his head, hiding his light brown hair, and he had added a pair of armguards to his outfit. His pack seemed fairly light, and he even had a sword at his side, though Rannve wondered if he knew how to use it.

"You…er…finished what you had to do?" he asked after a beat of silence broken only by the thundering of the wind as it blundered over the bridge. He swallowed tightly and turned away from the sight of her, not wanting it to appear obvious that he found her current state more appealing than he probably should have. He was supposed to be upset with her, after all.

Rannve hummed and said, "Yes. The Arch-Mage informed me that we should return by the end of Second Seed. Until then, you're stuck with me." She sent him a smile that was a tiny bit disconcerting, and he wasn't sure how exactly to interpret it.

With a roll of his eyes, Onmund muttered, "Let's just get out of here. Preferably before classes are over." He didn't like being the center of attention, and there was no doubt he would be just that if the other students caught sight of him walking away from the campus with the Dragonborn in tow. (Or, more than likely, it would be the other way around, and he would be following after her like some lost cub.)

Rannve laughed but didn't argue. She stepped past him and shrugged her pack higher up on her shoulders. "Let's be off, then."

He heaved a sigh, glancing mournfully back at the College before following Rannve over the collapsing bridge. He was fairly ready to begin their journey to the northern ice fields, and having never really traveled into the wilds before, Onmund rather assumed that they would be starting the first leg of their trip today despite it being late. He was surprised then (though he knew he shouldn't have been) to find Rannve heading toward the Frozen Hearth Inn. He hurried to catch up.

"We're not camping outside tonight?" he asked, and then blushed a little when Rannve threw him a raised eyebrow and an altogether skeptical expression.

"…It would be better to start our journey on the morn. Much safer, too. I'd rather not have to deal with any wolves or mountain lions tonight." She shrugged as if it was all in a day's work and Onmund sighed, but he certainly didn't complain as they entered the warm inn. He'd be a fool to.

Still. So much for their epic travels. He was almost upset that they didn't just rush headlong into danger the first moment they could. From the stories he'd heard about the fabled Dragonborn (and from what he had gotten to know about the real one), it seemed like something Rannve wouldn't think twice about. He had to remind himself that they had only _just left,_ and there would surely be plenty of opportunities to prove his worth to her during the two months of their suspension.

Inside the inn, it was warm and generally quiet. It didn't have the same loud minstrels or crowds that city inns often had, though Rannve wasn't surprised at this. Her periodic visits had put Winterhold into perspective – that is, the once great, sprawling city was now little more than a pitstop for bigger and better places, and the people who lived here thought much the same. There were a few of the village men off to the side, chatting about their day over a few mugs of ale, but there was no sign of any rowdy pub fights or uptight bards trying to sing over the clamor of drunken men.

As far as pubs went, it was a rather nice change. Usually Rannve had to maneuver around leering grins and outstretched hands whenever she stepped into such an establishment, but the men here barely paid her any mind. She walked right up to the counter with no problem at all, and was about to inquire into rooms when she realized that her companion was no longer by her side.

Spinning around in confusion, Rannve cast her gaze over the small pub. At first she saw no sign of his blue College robes, but then she saw the darkened form of two shadows lingering in a corner, and she sighed.

Onmund had found Enthir. And by the looks of it, he had discovered some semblance of courage, for he was shoving the Dark Elf up against the wall in a manner that looked fairly intimidating from this angle.

It was so unlike him that Rannve stared in surprise, unsure if she should step in or not. The gentle, robust mage seemed to have transformed into something else, though she could not put a finger on what it was. Whatever it was, it had clearly transferred over to Enthir, for his expression was pinched as if he was in pain, and Rannve could practically smell the discontent oozing from him.

Though her first instinct was going to step in, Rannve decided to watch and wait. She had traveled with enough male companions to know that they didn't like when she fought their battles for them – legendary heroine or not. And besides, she happened to have enough brothers to know how to best handle men. Their pride was fierce, and she knew that Onmund would not appreciate her interception.

That said, Rannve finally turned to the innkeeper, who was also watching the shadowy figures with a hard eye, and drew his attention away from her companion.

"Do you have empty rooms?" she asked, leaning against the wood as she reached into her coinpurse.

The innkeeper grunted and said, "I've got four. Don't suppose you've got any other companions?" The question was hopeful. He clearly didn't do much business this far north.

Rannve shook her head. "Afraid not. I'll take two rooms, and two meals for my companion and myself."

The man nodded, glancing back at the corner where Onmund was now whispering darkly to Enthir, having heaved him from the wall sometime between Rannve's last look and now. She thought it was rather amusing to see him acting so fierce, but the innkeeper obviously thought otherwise.

"I don't want any trouble," he warned her as he passed over two keys. "I will kick you out if I have to, make no mistake."

Rannve paused, and replied, "We're not looking for trouble either." She took the keys and the innkeeper nodded at her, accepting her words before gesturing at two closed doors on the left. He said something about getting their dinner prepared as Rannve turned to them.

She stepped into the room to the far right and dropped her belongings to the ground, glad to be rid of the weight of her pack. With a sigh, she walked to the bed and collapsed onto it, lifting her fingers to her scalp and rubbing circles into it as she thought about the events of the last 24 hours. One day ago, everything had been right. Onmund had still been an official student at the College, his academic record spotless, and she had been his unlikely studying companion. How they got here, to this point, still seemed a little fuzzy.

She knew it was her fault though. Onmund had tried to stop her and she ignored his efforts. She always knew that her biggest flaw was her arrogance. It had gotten her into plenty of trouble in the past and probably would in the future too. Talos knew that all her titles and fame didn't exactly help that part of her.

But – she couldn't change her actions now. All she could do was try her hardest to keep Onmund in one piece during the next two months of his suspension. And then, when that responsibility was finished and he was back where he belonged, she would continue down her own path alone. It was better that way. Being the Dragonborn meant being alone. There was no one who could truly stand at her side against everything she had to face.

With a mumbled groan, Rannve rolled over and sighed, lifting a hand to loosen one of the buckles at her neck that was digging into her skin. Yes – once her responsibilities with Onmund were finished, he'd be much better off returning to the College. Talos knew how the Nord would have preferred to remain there rather than go gallivanting across the country with her, no matter how he might claim otherwise. He was a different Nord than most, but the star struck way he looked at her was not quite so unique.

She sighed again and was about to get up when a familiar voice suddenly cleared his throat and said, "Erm…did you order dinner?"

Rannve glanced over at the door, where Onmund was standing. She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. And I ordered you your own room, too. It's next door," she informed him, before rolling back over carelessly. Onmund cleared his throat again.

"Er, right. Should we come up with a…uh, a plan? For tomorrow?" he asked hesitantly, obviously unsure about things relating to adventures. How did adventurers figure out their schedule anyway? Did they even have schedules? And was Rannve even considered to be an adventurer, or something more? He rubbed the back of his neck as he pondered all of these things, and barely noticed the dry look Rannve was sending him from her place sprawled out on the mattress.

With yet another sigh, Rannve said, "We're getting up before dawn. _You_ need a few more supplies. _I_ need to ask around for information about that crazy old man. Then we leave. That's our plan." She rolled back over.

Onmund blinked at her and made a sound in the back of his throat. Then he questioned, "What supplies do I need? I thought I had everything?"

He watched Rannve's shoulder shrug as she told him, "Thicker bedroll. Better weapons. Also gloves."

Onmund gave her a skeptical look, though she couldn't see it because her back was turned to him, and said, "But I have trouble casting spells when I wear gloves. And I brought my sword."

"It's rusty," was her answer.

He crossed his arms. "It's _not_ rusty."

"I'll buy you a few extra daggers just in case," she replied, then added, "And a whetstone."

Onmund normally wouldn't care that his weapon was being brought into question, but tonight he did. Perhaps it was because he already felt so out of his depth, talking about all these adventures. He was going on one with the Dragonborn herself! He could scarcely believe it. And that, perhaps, was the reason he felt a tiny bit aggravated. His sword was not rusty, thank you very much! She hadn't even seen it unsheathed!

He grumbled to himself and muttered, "I just sharpened it this afternoon…"

Rannve smiled to herself and closed her eyes. She had a feeling that this adventure would be of a different sort than her usual. Her companion certainly was. She had yet to decide if this was a good thing, or a bad one. Of course, soon enough, the answer to _that_ particular query would come to her all on its own, and it certainly wouldn't be quite what she was expecting.


	14. Calm

**A/N: In which Rannve and Onmund begin to initial leg of their journey into the ice fields to the north.** **Just a short update for now. I'll be posting the next chapter in a few days, which will be longer. The next chapter will feature Septimus, which I'm really excited about!**

 **TheOneThatSeesGNS: Lol! Yup, it's definitely slow and steady, but their adventure will be much more detailed once we get into it! I'm glad you like the story so far :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen | Calm**

True to her word, Rannve rolled out of bed before dawn had even crested the horizon. She had to drag herself up, groaning pitifully to herself as she rubbed her eyes and yawned widely. Living that the College had been abnormally dreary and had gotten her into the habit of sleeping in later than she used to. It was difficult to get up that morning, but she knew that once they got on the road she would fall back into her usual routine. Waking up to the frigid wind blowing in your face, or dusted over with snow from the night before…now that was an invigorating way to greet the day.

She peered into Onmund's room as she passed, deciding to let him sleep for a little longer while she did her errands around town. Of course half the town was asleep still when she stepped outside, but it hardly stopped her from walking down the slippery, icy pathways. The general store was somewhere around here.

When she found it, quite by accident, Rannve tried the door. By some stroke of luck, it was unlocked and she ventured inside, forming a quick mental list of everything she needed to start their journey. She'd already raided the kitchens of the College for dried food and such things, but she did want to buy Onmund a dagger or two. She was well aware of the merits of magic, but she had little knowledge of battle mages and the like. She had never had one as a companion before.

In any case, being prepared was a good idea, and it would make her feel better to know he had the means of protecting himself if his magic failed him.

"Morning," Rannve greeted as she stepped up to the counter, where a middle aged woman stood idling. She rested her forearms on the wooden surface and glanced at the merchant. "I'm in need of some supplies."

With the woman's help, Rannve was able to find a much thicker bedroll than the one she'd seen in Onmund's pack yesterday. She purchased it without preamble, along with a thick fur cloak that he would no doubt thank her for (later, when he realized how useless his College robes were at staving off the cold). A few other odds and ends and she was off, heading toward the blacksmith to inquire about those daggers.

She wasn't sure why the merchants seemed to open their storefronts so early, considering the almost total lack of customers this far north, but Rannve wasn't about to complain. She climbed the short steps up to the smithy and bartered back and forth with the old blacksmith for a little while before buying two long daggers and a leather sheath for them that would stretch across Onmund's back and make it easier to pull the weapons out quickly.

Her chores done, Rannve headed back to the tavern to finish preparing for the journey, intent on waking Onmund up and getting some breakfast. She was pleased to see that he was already awake and dressed by the time she returned, making the quick walk back to their lodgings. For a proclaimed student, he seemed to have a much better sense of time than she had expected.

When she walked into his room without bothering to knock, Onmund looked up at her from where he sat on the edge of his bed and sighed, no doubt at the supplies she was carrying. The fur lined bedroll was a bulky mass beneath her arm, having not properly rolled it up as tightly as she would when they gathered the rest of their things. That, and the sheathed daggers hanging from her arm made him purse his lips.

"I told you I didn't need – "

"Oh hush," Rannve interrupted, tossing the bedroll onto the mattress with a huff. "You'll thank me when we're bunkered down on solid ice in the middle of nowhere." She smirked to herself at the thought of him in the wilds and he rolls his eyes.

"It's too heavy," he complained, testing the weight of the bedroll. Then, turning his gaze to the knives still hanging from Rannve's arm, he muttered, "And I have no idea how to wield those, you know. Besides, I've got magic!"

(Of course he wasn't entirely sure if his version of battle magic would really help them out or not, considering the fact that he'd never actually used magic to fight, but still.)

Rannve laughed, "Yes, you're a mage, I've figured that out already." He gave her a dry look and she said, "Relax. I'll teach you how to use them. Just think of them as your last defense, hmm? What if you run out of magicka right when a mountain lion is about to claw your face off?"

Her words were obviously intended as a joke, albeit a very poor one. Onmund hardly thought that a wild animal attack should be taken lightly, but then again this was the Dragonborn, hero of legend! She probably faced all manners of creatures during her many adventures. And dragons too! She _would_ laugh at something like that…

But it definitely gave Onmund pause. He glanced up at her hesitantly and asked, "…Do you think that might happen?"

After all, he had no idea what awaited them on their journey. The only adventure he'd ever had was his trip to the College several years before, and he'd been able to hitch a ride with some other travelers for most of it. He had never really traveled off the beaten track, as it were, but having been born and raised in Skyrim, he knew the dangers that befell unprepared adventurers even if he had only heard about them and not experienced said dangers himself.

Rannve looked at him carefully for a moment and then smirked. "Don't be afraid, I'll protect you."

He jerked into a straighter position and glowered at her. With a petulant scoff, he muttered, "I'm not _afraid."_

Rannve held back a laugh, knowing it would be taken poorly. Onmund might have been a different sort of Nordsman than the usual type, but he certainly possessed the same amount of pride. She'd have to remember that.

"Let's get something to eat, and then we'll head out," she suggested, deciding it was best to change the subject entirely. She had to remind herself that Onmund was entirely new at this. Unlike her previous companions, he hardly knew what to expect out in the wilderness. While she didn't particularly mind, and had full confidence that she would be able to protect him if need be, she knew this fact wasn't something she should so easily put aside. His inexperience could be dangerous for them both, especially where they were going.

She had never ventured so far north before. There was never any reason to, after all, and she had never been particularly drawn to the ice fields beyond the College. It was a fool's errand, which made their destination seem all the more foolhardy as a result.

It took about an hour to get safely down the mountainside. Winterhold was near enough to the ice covered sea that it wasn't too difficult, and because they were close to civilization, they didn't encounter any wild beasts. Once they reached the edge of the ocean, where the ice separated the snowy shore from their destination, Rannve pulled out her map and crouched down, setting it on her knee with a thoughtful expression.

"This is the outpost," she said, pointing to a small dot that didn't look so terribly far away, on paper. Onmund leaned over her shoulder and hummed. He watched her finger drag over the parchment. "We're about here, I think. That means that we should head…that way." She nodded in a direction subtly diagonal from where they were facing and Onmund raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure?" he asked, glancing at the map again. "Cause I think we might be closer to here." He pointed to a different area and Rannve shot him a look.

Ah. Right. She was the Dragonborn, therefore she knew everything. He'd forgotten. With a roll of his eyes, Onmund gestured forward and muttered, "Don't know why I bother…"

Rannve laughed as she rolled the map up. "You may be right," she admitted with a shrug, "We won't know until we get properly lost, I suppose. Come on."

At her statement, Onmund gaped. He hurried to follow her long strides and said, "Lost? Out here? I hope not!"

She hummed. "Mmm…I often get lost. It's part of the job, you know. More fun that way."

He scoffed at her, wondering if he should be regretting his decision to follow her or if it was too late to retract it entirely. But – he didn't want to retract it, despite the fact that he doubted his ability to fill the shoes of her companion. Too often, he changed his mind. He'd done it with Enthir and countless others, and he didn't want to do it now. Besides, if he lived through this, what a story it would be! A story worth telling a thousand times over, to be sure. Though…he wasn't entirely sure he _would_ live through it, and that was the scary part.

But like all adventures, the first part of the journey was the hardest, and even though Onmund doubted himself now, it would not always be that way. For this journey would turn him from the simple life he had lived thus far, and becoming a battle mage of the highest caliber wasn't even the half of it.


	15. Hysteria

**A/N: In which Rannve and Onmund have an interesting experience with one Septimus Signus...**

 **gwap-queen: Thank you! It's fun writing Onmund's interactions with Rannve. They're so different from each other! As they go through their adventure together though, Onmund will discover traits about himself that he didn't know he had. This has ended up becoming a story self-discovery for Onmund as well as a romance!**

 **I had so much fun writing this chapter ;) Please enjoy, and as always, feel free to drop me a review on your way out!**

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen | Hysteria**

Rannve didn't want to admit it, but sometimes she made mistakes. They were rare, naturally, but she was still half human after all. It was bound to happen at least once in her life.

Onmund didn't rub it in her face. She suspected he was too good natured for all that. He was probably the most wholesome Nord she'd ever met, which wasn't really saying a whole lot considering the usual type she ran with, but still. She…appreciated it. Sort of.

In any case, she had chosen the wrong direction after all, and they ended up stumbling around the ice fields for several more hours than they would have if only she had listened to Onmund's suggestion before they started. Septimus Signus's outpost was not in the direction she had assumed. They probably ended up walking right passed it to be honest, and it wasn't until a heavy ice storm began to brew around them that Rannve decided she'd better consult her map again. When they finally found the outpost, it was high afternoon – much later than she had planned.

"Is this it?" Onmund asked, peering at the nondescript little door with a skeptical look on his face. She didn't blame him. It looked as if someone had hastily nailed a few sad planks of wood together and carved out a hole for the doorknob. Septimus was clearly not talented in construction.

She wavered for a moment, staring at the strange sight of a door pushed against the side of a glacier, and then shrugged. "Do you know of anyone else crazy enough to live up here?" she asked rhetorically, and grabbed the planks of wood before pulling the entire thing away. It didn't have hinges.

Onmund grunted and followed her into the small tunnel. He had to crouch down to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. Rannve handed him the door with a sort of baffled expression and he chuckled as he put it back in place. He wasn't sure how he even had the energy to laugh, to be honest. He was freezing. Even his Nord blood had stopped keeping him warm after a few hours, and when that ice storm started blowing heavy winds at them, the temperature dropped even more. It was much better in the tunnel though, if only because it kept them safe from the storm.

It was strange. He'd seen the damage that these ice storms could do from the tall windows up in the College, but he had been safe up there. High in the College, it had felt like those storms had been from another world where he couldn't be reached. Yet now he was in the middle of one, with a woman he had promised to follow. He'd never thought he'd ever be in such a situation.

Rannve glanced at him and pursed her mouth. "How do you feel?" she asked, reaching forward to press her fingers against his cheek. His face probably matched hers – red, raw, battered by the wind and icy snow. Her fingers were cold, too, yet they felt indescribably warm against his skin.

He swallowed and responded, "I've been through worse."

Her eyebrows rose. "Have you?" she asked, and the corner of her mouth edged up a bit. He chuckled again.

"Probably. Maybe. I don't know. Should we keep going? For some reason, I smell roasted meat," he mumbled, and wondered if he was going crazy. Had her touch addled his brain even more than the storm? If so, he was in even deeper than he'd thought, which was really a scary thing because he had already imagined himself to be in pretty deep.

Rannve paused, sniffed the air like some wild animal, and mused, "Huh. Looks like we're going to be interrupting his lunch." Onmund pressed down a smile and they began huddling forward.

It was slow going in that tiny tunnel, and Onmund felt a bit claustrophobic. He liked wide open spaces and had a feeling Rannve did too, because she looked distinctly uncomfortable as she edged forward. Luckily the tunnel didn't go on for very long before it opened up into a large cavernous room that jutted down several meters. The cavern was circular and well lived in, it seemed. A fire was built in the center of it, its smoke billowing up toward a hole that had been carved in the ceiling. Surrounding it was a small table and chair that had been pulled up right to the edge, and was currently being laden with what looked like fish.

Rannve raised an eyebrow and studied the man setting the table. He looked…well. He looked like a wildman in his tattered robes and untrimmed beard. His hair appeared to have forgotten what a brush was, and there were probably several layers of grime on his person that had collected over…well, Rannve didn't want to wonder too much about his hygiene.

She stepped forward, ducking out of the tunnel and onto the icy platform overlooking the small cavern, her fingers twitching beside the hilt of her sword just in case their presence would not be well received. Her movement alerted Septimus, who raised his head up and peered at them in distraction, his hand raised to the center of the table where he was going to put a fork down on an oddly folded napkin.

She expected some sort of angered exclamation for their uninvited appearance, but instead all she got was a rattled, "Guests! Are you here for some salmon? Pretty, tasty fish!" And then he cackled.

Rannve looked over at Onmund, who shrugged.

"Um…yes. Salmon. Looks good," she said. Septimus didn't answer her. He turned back to the table with a few unheard mutters and seemed to forget they were there entirely.

Rannve and Onmund slowly made their way down. The moment their feet met the solid, packed snow of the floor, Septimus turned toward them with a start and gasped – which naturally made Rannve reach for her sword because his movement had been so sudden. Onmund barely had time to grab her wrist and prevent her from drawing it. He almost stumbled right into her as he closed his fingers around her armored gauntlet, which made Rannve stiffen even more because she hadn't been expecting that, either.

"Calm down," Onmund hissed at her. She scowled.

Meanwhile Septimus was exclaiming, "Fish!" quite loudly, waving his hands wildly about his head with a crazed gleam in his eyes. "You've come to take my fish! My pretty, precious fish!"

Onmund squeezed Rannve's wrist and shot her a look when she opened her mouth, not trusting her to say the right thing. She'd probably make the situation worse and scare the insane man into thinking something far worse.

He stepped forward and cleared his throat. It didn't draw Septimus's attention to him, but he succeeded in calming the man when he said, "We're not here for your fish, sir. We just want to ask you a few questions about the Elder Scrolls."

That shut Septimus up pretty quickly, and he fell entirely silent as he peered over at them from beneath his ragged hood. He raised a grizzly eyebrow and narrowed his eyes at them before his gaze popped out and he exclaimed, "Elder Scrolls, yes!" Then he proceeded to go on a very long winded muttered tirade that sounded every bit as crazy as he looked.

Rannve wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, but she knew it was going to take a while when she saw Septimus drag an extra chair to the table. It was the only extra chair, by the looks of it, and seemed like it might fall apart if even a little bit of weight was put on it. Once the chair was in place, Septimus took his own seat and forked up some salmon, shoveling it into his mouth without preamble before looking over at them with wild eyes.

"SIT!" he shouted, pointing at the chair like he was cursing it. Rannve and Onmund both flinched backwards at the sudden yell and the way the sound rocketed about the small icy chamber. They glanced at each other in confusion, wondering who Septimus was talking to.

Of course, Onmund, ever the gentleman, gestured for Rannve to step forward. She had a feeling he was all the happier to remain standing, which she felt indescribably envious of as she approached the strange man and the rotten chair. Septimus chewed his fish and watched her closely.

Their actions were clearly not what the insane man had meant though, which he made clear a moment later. Septimus pointed at the chair, stared at Onmund, and bellowed, "SIT!" again. Some fish flew out of his mouth and Rannve barely managed to dodge its trajectory. Then she realized what the crazy old bat was saying.

…He wanted them both to sit on that single chair that looked like it might collapse at any moment? He couldn't be serious.

When Onmund paused, Septimus made a terribly strange expression and exclaimed, "Elder Scrolls, yes? SIT!" Rannve and Onmund both sighed and looked at each other.

"Erm…how do you want to…?" Onmund asked hesitantly, eyeing the chair carefully as if he thought it might get up and walk away. Rannve pursed her lips and waved him forward, trying to remain calm and handle the situation in much the same manner. It was…rather difficult to be calm when they both tried to sit at once though.

"Ow," Onmund hissed, rubbing his leg where she had accidentally hit him with the side of her armor. They got situated, sort of, both of them half on and half off the chair. Really, the sad excuse for furniture was small even for one person, let alone two. Rannve had to hold most of her weight on her other leg, which was highly uncomfortable. Onmund hardly looked any better. Being larger than her, half of the leg he had on the chair wasn't even fully on it, and he had to bend his other knee to the floor in an awkward half sitting, half kneeling position that looked utterly ridiculous.

Septimus was still watching them closely, as if they were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. It made Rannve even more uncomfortable, which was saying a lot considering her current position. Her side was pressed right against Onmund's, as close as ever, and the warmth of his body was like a furnace. This wasn't going to work.

She sighed and got to her feet with a grumbled, "Get up, Onmund. I'm going to sit in your lap."

The words naturally made her poor Nord companion go several shades redder in the face, and he peered up at him with wide eyes _. Sit in his lap?!_ But –

"Hurry up," she hissed at him, gesturing wildly to the tiny chair with a displeased look on her face. Septimus shoveled another fork of salmon into his mouth and blinked at them, watching gleefully as Onmund shuffled fully into the chair with a look of consternation etched plainly on his face.

Rannve paused, took a breath to steady herself, and slowly lowered herself into Onmund's lap. He was tense and unyielding beneath her, looking very much out of his depth with his hands fisted at his sides and his face set into awkward sternness. He looked pained as she adjusted her weight against him, sitting sideways, half on half off of him and arm wrapped clumsily around his shoulders. He looked down at her, met her gaze, and proceeded to flush even deeper.

The _Dragonborn_ was sitting in his lap. The Dragonborn was in his _lap_. _The_

 _Dragonborn –_

"Stop it," Rannve rasped at him, glowering.

He swallowed thickly and asked, "Stop what? I'm not doing anything."

He was just sitting there, with the _Dragonborn_ in his _lap_.

Rannve stared gloomily at him and muttered, "Stop thinking. I can practically _hear_ your thoughts."

At this, he made a strange little noise that sounded like a mix between a gasp and a squeak, and cleared his throat hastily. He really _hoped_ she couldn't hear his thoughts, because they were currently verging on dirty.

Meanwhile, Septimus had acquired an amused little smirk that he was directing right at the two of them. He looked like he was seconds from erupting into more of his insane cackling. If he did, Rannve might punch him.

"I read your book where you rambled on about the Elder Scrolls," Rannve said staunchly, spearing Septimus with a look that would normally make any adversary give pause. It only made Septimus blink curiously though, and she gritted out, "Tell us about them."

Onmund shot her a warning look that she couldn't help but see, considering how close their faces currently were. She ignored him though, and turned her face away from him even though it was a bit uncomfortable to move her neck at such an abrupt angle.

Luckily Septimus didn't seem to hear the derision in Rannve's voice, because he merely exclaimed, "Elder Scrolls, indeed! The Empire. They absconded with them. Or so they think." Then he leaned in, eyes wild and batty, voice set with whispered excitement, "I know of one. Forgotten. Sequestered."

Rannve raised her eyebrows at Septimus and turned to look at Onmund, forgetting for a moment that she was trying her hardest to ignore their proximity. The promise of an Elder Scroll was too much to bear though, and she looked at him curiously, not realizing that their faces were really _quite so_ close.

Inches. That was the amount of space between them. Onmund felt his heart do a strange little sweep in his chest, as though it was turning over itself. He blushed vividly, and thought he saw a blush spread over Rannve's face too – though he wasn't entirely sure because she looked away as quickly as she could.

"…So where's the scroll, then?" Rannve asked after clearing her throat a bit. She looked over at Septimus, whose expression hadn't changed and was still set with excited bafflement.

He laughed loudly and then whispered, "Here!"

Here? Rannve pursed her mouth and glanced around his little cavern, eyes alighting on the strange Dwemer contraption several feet away. Surely he didn't mean _here_. As in _right_ here.

Then he shrugged and added, "Well here as in this plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking."

 _Relatively_ _speaking?_ She wanted to throttle him. She really did. Onmund must have noticed, must have seen the tense way her muscles contracted, for his arms suddenly came up to wrap solidly around her waist and drag her back against him just as she was pushing forward.

She let out a surprised sound that did not help clear up Onmund's slightly unclean thoughts and landed with an 'oohf' against his chest, with her nose tucked rather intimately against the bare skin of his neck. He swallowed tightly when he realized this and blushed several shades deeper, if possible. Clearly it was, because he felt entirely too warm in this icy room. Rannve wrangled herself back and narrowed her eyes at him, at which he swallowed again and tried his best to give her a warning look. He most likely failed, but at least he made an attempt.

Feeling extremely impatient and very much wanting to get out of Onmund's strong hold on her for reasons she'd rather not disclose, Rannve exasperatingly asked, "Will you help me get the Elder Scroll or not?"

Septimus chewed a forkful of salmon and muttered, "One block lifts the other. Septimus will give what you want, but you must bring him something in return."

He blinked at them and tilted his head. Rannve sighed. "What do you want?"

The crazy old man grinned gleefully and exclaimed, gesticulating wildly to the Dwemer contraption behind him, "You see this masterwork of the Dwemer! Deep inside, their greatest knowings. Lucky then they left behind their own way of reading the Elder Scrolls. In the depths of Blackreach one yet lies."

At this, Rannve stiffened. Septimus rambled, "Have you heard of Blackreach? Cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the yearning spire hidden learnings kept. Go under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep. Tower Mzark. Get the lexicon, and it will show you what you need to know."

Upon saying this, Septimus jumped up out of his chair and took a step back, before pausing and glancing from his salmon to his wayward guests. He gave them a distrustful glance before lifting his plate and taking it with him to a small cabinet on the other side of the room. Rannve raised an eyebrow at his actions but didn't comment, deciding it best to remain silent on his apparent fish-hoarding ways.

The crazy old man began riffling through the cabinet, muttering to himself as he did. When he returned to the table, balancing his plate of fish on one arm, he set two objects onto the wooden surface.

"Not all can enter there!" he exclaimed theatrically. Rannve wondered if he meant to sound so ridiculous and decided it best not to say anything about _that_ either. "Only Septimus knows the hidden key to loose the lock and jump beneath the deathly rock."

He held up the two items, eyes gleaming as he beheld them. "Two things I have for you. Two shapes. One edged, one round. The round one – for tuning! The edged lexicon, for inscribing. To us, a hunk of metal! To the Dwemer, a full library of _knowings!_ But…empty!" he wailed, and threw down the objects before grabbing his fork and taking another bite of salmon.

Rannve shifted against Onmund and didn't notice the way his breath caught in his throat at her movement. Actually, to be honest, having her in his lap wasn't quite as glorious as it had been at first. Her armor was hard and cut into his skin, and on top of that, his thighs were beginning to go numb from her constant weight. With her steel plated armor encasing her, she was a lot heavier than she looked.

Rannve hardly even noticed his discomfort and merely raised a skeptical brow at Septimus's ravings. "What do we need to do then?" she asked impatiently, wanting nothing more than to get out of this Talos damned wasteland.

Septimus looked over at her and wondered, "Huh?" Then, glancing down at the objects, he exclaimed, "Ah, yes! Find Mzark and its sky-dome. The machinations there will read the Scroll and lay the lore upon the cube!" He shoved another forkful of fish into his mouth and chewed loudly as he blinked at them.

Rannve cleared her throat and swept her legs over the chair, intent on standing up and getting the hell out of there. Her legs had gone a bit numb themselves, though, and so as she did, she stumbled a little. Onmund leaned forward to lay a steady hand about her waist, hardly thinking as he did. When he realized he was grasping her though, he jumped back as if burnt and blushed a dark red, looking anywhere but at her. Rannve just sighed.

"Come on, Onmund. Let's head back to Winterhold," Rannve muttered, leaning forward to grab the two objects lying on the table. Signus, apparently thinking she was reaching for his dinner, grabbed his plate and all but thrust it into his chest as he leaned as far back as his chair would allow. Rannve stared at him for a moment before rolling her eyes and stuffing the objects into the satchel at her waist.

Onmund hastily stood up. "Er…thank you, sir. We…appreciate your…erm, information."

Rannve made a noncommittal noise that could have been both a sound of agreement as well as the complete opposite, which Onmund rather suspected was the one she was hedging on. Ignoring her, he said in a louder voice, "Enjoy your dinner!"

Septimus' eyes popped out at them and he exclaimed, "Fish!" again in a mystical voice. He held onto his plate as if for dear life, knuckles white from the effort.

Rannve rolled her eyes again, grabbed Onmund's sleeve, and dragged him back up the snowy arch that led to the tunnel. Behind them, Septimus kept muttering, "Fish, fish, fish!" beneath his breath as he watched them go.


	16. Rally

**A/N: And here is the main plot of this story, finally introduced after sixteen chapters lol! This is way more slowburn than I was anticipating, but when their romance does finally happen, it'll be worth it! I am just wrapping up the writing process on this story now, so it's pretty much finished save for a few chapters. I'll try to update more frequently as I go through the editing process.**

 **Please enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen | Rally**

Once out of the tunnel and back on the ice fields, Rannve barely even paused before throwing her hood over her head and trudging back onto the ice. She didn't even wait to give Onmund time to put the door back in place. He had to jog to catch up to her, and nearly slipped in the process.

"So…back to Winterhold now?" he questioned when he reached her side, throwing his voice loudly over the wind so that it would reach her.

Rannve grunted and said, "Yes. Might as well, for now at least."

They traveled in relative silence back to the mainland. This time, they were able to journey faster, as they had a clearer sense of direction. The shadow of the College loomed ahead of them; a blaring landmark amongst the snowy sleet, which had by then calmed down during their talk with Septimus.

Rannve couldn't get to the inn fast enough. She pushed them hard over the icy landscape, and when they at last reached the warmth of the tavern, Onmund could have collapsed with exhaustion. He was glad to be back in the civilized world. Their run-in with Septimus had left much to be desired when it came to common luxuries.

"We'll stay here for the night while I figure out where I'm going next," Rannve told him as they brushed their cloaks free of errant snowflakes. Onmund looked up sharply at her and frowned.

"I'm coming with you," he staunchly said, and crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly.

She looked at him, paused, and murmured, "Dwemer ruins are not for the faint of heart, Onmund."

At this, he bristled. "Are you saying I'm a coward?"

"No," she admitted, thinking that such a word didn't quite fit in with his persona. Coward he was not, but she was quite sure that he wasn't the same type of companion she often journeyed with, and didn't want him to regret his decision to come along with her. With a sigh, she told him, "Even _I_ don't want to venture into Blackreach. I wouldn't blame you if you'd rather stay here."

She looked over at him. In the warmth of the inn, he wasn't shivering quite so badly as before. His cheeks were flushed but he looked otherwise fine, as if they hadn't just traveled through the treacherous ice fields and came out unscathed. They were lucky they hadn't run into any wild beast, but she almost wished they had. At least then, she would have a better idea as to what Onmund was capable of when it came to battle.

Could she truly be blamed for thinking of him as a simple student? The College was safe and protected, far from the dangers that Rannve knew existed in the wilds. She was used to rowdier companions who had proven themselves many times over in battle. But Onmund was so very different. He was too kindhearted to be by her side – she hardly knew what to do with him.

Before he could reply, Rannve reasoned, "Let me figure out where I'm going first, and then you can decide what you want to do." She wouldn't be responsible for his death. His decision would be entirely his own, and she would make sure he went into it knowing full well what awaited them.

Finding this fair, and being too tired to argue, Onmund scrubbed at his face and said, "Okay, fine. In the mean time, I'm going to ask for a bath."

Rannve smiled and nodded, and together they walked over to the innkeeper to inquire about an extra night's lodging – and a bath to be drawn as well. When that was settled and dinner was set in front of them, Rannve pulled out her map and unfurled it on the tabletop before her. Onmund watched, having decided to eat with her while the innkeeper went about readying the bath for him.

He leaned closer in curiosity, noting the worn edges of the map, the creases, the way it looked to be well used and torn in a few places. He hadn't gotten a good look at it when she had pulled it out before. In truth, it had been years since he last saw a map of his homeland in such detail, if ever. There were many, many additions scratched into the parchment that would not be on a normal map – little footnotes and symbols that he could not readily identify. He assumed they were some sort of shorthand that Rannve used to easily recognize a place, for they were littered across the parchment in droves, from the South Rift to the tip of the rocky coastline of Winterhold – and even beyond.

He gaped at the map for a long moment, swept up in the sudden realization that her travels really have taken her all over the country, quite literally. If his suppositions were correct regarding these symbols, then Rannve had journeyed from Markarth to the Sea of Ghosts; had delved into countless caves and ruins; even traversed the borders of Skyrim in what appeared to him as a need to know her country inside and out. He stared at her in surprised silence, to which she barely batted an eye.

"What?" she drawled, smoothing a finger out over one area of the map. She tapped it idly, appearing distracted – but not overly so that she hadn't caught onto Onmund's silence. When he didn't reply, she looked over at him with a raised brow.

"What is it, Onmund?" she demanded, now noticing his open mouth and shining eyes. She hadn't seen those eyes on him in a while…it made her shift on the bench, unsure if she was uncomfortable or pleased or somewhere in between.

"Have you really been to all these places?" he asked, leaning in to sweep his eyes over her map again. Her expression took on a dry appearance and she grunted. Onmund was not so far gone in the remnants of his hero-worshiping self that he didn't notice her reaction, and he blushed a bit at his own amazed behavior. He was acting like a fool. Not that he thought this was all that surprising. He always seemed to act like a fool around Rannve.

"Er…it's just that I've never met someone so well-traveled," he amended, quickly catching sight of her unimpressed look. He blushed harder and justified himself with a muttered, "I grew up in a farming community of no more than a dozen people, you know."

At this, Rannve hummed. "That sounds awful," she told him. He leaned back and opened his mouth to tell her that her words were a bit rude, thank you – but after a moment, Onmund grunted his agreement and said, "Yeah. It was pretty awful."

They shared an amused smile.

"I don't know why I'm surprised," he shrugged as he considered it. "I mean, you're the _Dragonborn."_

Of course she'd been everywhere. Her travels had no doubt taken her to places Onmund could only dream about. She'd seen things and done things and met people that Onmund could not even imagine. He glanced back down at the map laid out across the table and busied himself by taking a long drink from his mug. For, now that he thought of it, he suddenly felt a bit…well, a bit like a country bumpkin, for lack of a better phrase. It galled him.

He knew he wasn't entirely qualified to be her companion. He hadn't proven his mettle with a sword and shield, or journeyed into dangerous places to retrieve powerful artifacts, or done half as much as her usual companions most likely did. He was neither brawny and strong like his average kinsman nor was he all that talented with magic like some of his fellow mages at the College. What use, really, could he be to her? He would likely only get in her way.

Was he on a fool's errand? Probably. He didn't belong by her side, he was sure. And yet, Rannve had not tried to convince him to remain behind – yet. He wondered if she would.

"Bath's all set up when yer ready," the innkeeper, a Nord by the name of Dagur, drawled from nearby, and set another bottle of Honningbrew Mead beside Rannve. "Compliments of the house, Dragonborn." He nodded at her and turned back to his work.

Rannve grunted in the back of her throat and reached for the bottle. "Go on then," she told Onmund as she uncorked it. "I'll be here when you're done, and then we can talk about our next destination."

If Onmund was surprised that she used the word 'our', he didn't show it. He just nodded and rose from the table, leaving her there as he disappeared into his room. Once he fumbled out of his frozen robes and sank into the water, he nearly groaned aloud at the temperature. It was divine. He didn't often receive such an opportunity to sit around in a tub for however long it took the water to cool. There were bathing chambers in the College, of course, but they were always crowded and loud, and Onmund usually cleaned himself up as quickly as possible so as to avoid the space altogether. He had never had a chance to have a bath all to himself before.

One of the perks of traveling with the Dragonborn, he mused to himself as he tipped his head back with a quiet smile.

Still, he was unsure if Rannve would be all that pleased if he were to remain here indefinitely (though the water was still hot and he wanted nothing more but to remain right where he was), and so after a while, Onmund sighed and began scrubbing at his skin with a bar of soap that the innkeeper had provided. He was just about to dunk his head to scrub at his hair, knowing that this would probably be the last time in a long while until he had such a chance again, when the door of his room suddenly burst open and Rannve's figure appeared at the threshold.

Now Onmund was a man as any other, and a Nord to boot, who had grown up idolizing the Dragonborn legends just as any other boy. But – and he was loathe to admit this – when Rannve appeared at the door, he nearly jumped out of his skin with fright and nervous anxiety. Partially because she was an unexpected addition to his tiny sliver of peace, partially because his heart always seemed to splutter whenever she was concerned, and partially because he was…erm, well. _Naked_.

Any other Nord might take advantage of that fact. His brethren were proud creatures, quick to flaunt their assets. And, as his kin was known for their impressive musculature, another Nord might not hesitate in pridefully showing off to the Dragonborn – who had walked right over to Onmund's bed without even a proper greeting, as if she had as much right as any other to take him off guard in such a manner.

Onmund was not like other Nords though. Physically, he was hardly much different from any other standard Nord, and though the depth of his pride was just as consuming, he did not puff out his chest or flex his arms on the sides of the tub. No, instead, he shrunk back against the metal with a frantic, "What in Tamriel are you doing?! I thought you said you'd wait outside!"

Rannve only scoffed quietly from the edge of the bed, throwing a leg over the other, as if interrupting unassuming men during their baths was perfectly common. She hardly glanced at Onmund, though he glanced plenty at her, and merely snickered to herself.

Spearing her eyes to his broad shoulders, Rannve said, "You were taking too long and I want to go over the plans before going to sleep." Her eyes slid over his, and then with no shortage of mischief blazing through her bright eyes, she smirked and coyly asked, "Why? Were you doing something…unmentionable in here?"

The insinuations coloring her voice certainly had an effect on Onmund, much to Rannve's eternal amusement. She watched as a blush quickly overcame his features, and nearly laughed aloud when he flushed a deep red from forehead to – well, as it was, she wasn't entirely sure where said blush ended, as the edge of the tub rather hindered her view of him. All she knew was that she didn't realize that someone could blush all the way down to their collar.

He flapped his mouth at her a few times, clearly not knowing how to grace her with a proper response, until Onmund settled for a staunch rebuttal that seemed to only make matters worse.

"I most certainly was not!" he retorted, and then blushed even more because his tone made Rannve smirk widely at him and peer down at what parts of his body she could see above the tub's edge. Broad shoulders and the hint of a surprisingly toned chest. Surprising, because Onmund wasn't much of a warrior, and also because Rannve was a little amused at herself for finding him somewhat attractive. From what she could see of him, his chest was smoother than most of her brethren, who tended to be hairy and aggressively muscled. There was something almost graceful about him compared to their kin. It was rather…fascinating to her.

She hummed lowly and allowed her eyes to generously drift over him as she wondered for the first time what the rest of his body looked like. Her musings were fairly obvious, as she hardly bothered hiding them, and they made Onmund distinctly uncomfortable as he flushed even deeper.

Shifting beneath the scrutiny of her gaze, he swallowed tightly and said, "Well turn around so I can get out."

Talos help him, if she kept studying him like that, as if he was an artifact for her perusal, he might actually be forced to do something _unmentionable_ the first moment she left.

Rannve snorted. "I rather like the sight of you. I've never seen someone blush so hard in my life." The blunt confession seemed to only make his blush all the worse, and Rannve snickered at him from the bed.

Divines. It was almost amusing, how Onmund would have preferred to be anywhere else at this moment. He had daydreamed about the Dragonborn far more than he would ever admit (he was a _Nord_ – he grew up with the legends of Dragonborns of old, and he loved a good story as much as the next man, especially if it featured a warrior maiden of renowned grace). Only, Onmund wasn't very good with women. He tended to flounder his way through his dealings with the opposite sex. He had neither the charming charisma nor the dashing wit to navigate the undertones of intimacy. And besides, it wasn't as if there was a whole lot of women at the College of Winterhold. None that he found particularly attractive at least.

So – it was almost amusing how much he wished Rannve would leave the room, considering how he'd spent the last few months following her around like a lost puppy. Rannve seemed to find it amusing, too, which was definitely part of the problem.

With a perturbed huff, Onmund sat up and turned his head to face her, sending her an impatient scowl that looked a little wrong on the usually content contours of his face. It certainly made Rannve raise an eyebrow at him, though it did not stop her from looking at him, especially now that she had a better view of his chest. Talos! She wasn't just looking at him; she was _studying_ him like he was a curiosity she had never encountered, and to say that it was unnerving was _quite_ an understatement.

"Give me the towel," Onmund said after a moment spent trying to wrangle his voice back together. Said towel was laying just a little too far for him to reach easily – a fact that he hadn't considered before, and was dearly wishing he had. There was just something very disconcerting about being naked in a room that was currently occupied by the Dragonborn. He had never felt so bare in all his life, and he was fairly used to the communal bathing rooms at the College, so this was saying quite a lot.

Rannve pursed her lips, no doubt trying to battle with more of her blasted amusement (Talos take her), but ultimately decided not to be overly difficult. She felt a tiny bit bad that he was so embarrassed. It hadn't been her intention, really. Her intention had simply been to go over a few plans before returning to her own room for the night, because she was exhausted and impatient and hadn't wanted to wait. She hadn't really thought that she would find the sight of him so pleasing, and she hadn't thought that he would be so…well, boyish wasn't quite the right word, but it would suffice for now.

She got up, chuckled a little when he pulled his knees up with an awkward grunt, and threw him his towel. Then, turning back to face the door, Rannve crossed her arms and waited for him to dry himself off. She heard him exit the tub, heard the frantic way he toweled his body dry, heard the exhale of breath and the sound of him throwing his clothes on as quickly as he could – and she also heard her heart crashing in her chest with an audacious fire that she could neither name nor understand. Only she knew that there was a tension in the air that prickled at her skin and made her thoughts spiral out of control with every shard of time that swept past.

It lingered there, that tension. She was a little unsure as to why, until she turned around a few minutes later to see a hastily dressed Onmund standing in the center of the room, clothes mussed as he toweled off his wet hair. When their eyes clashed in an almost heady manner, he looked distinctly uncomfortable, in an endearing sort of way that hinted at awkward charm. If such a thing existed, then Onmund had it in droves.

Endearing was a good word for it, she decided as she looked him over. She was far more accustomed to a brasher type of traveling companion. Her usual type often had more confidence than they could fully account for. Of course, she didn't have much experience in dealing with mages as a general rule. Mages tended to be more cunning and less brawny. The 'act first, think later' mindset that she tended to fall back upon seemed to shirk around the edges of the mage persona, and Onmund was no different. He was far more careful than most of their Nordic kinsmen, who preferred to think upon their actions at a later date, if at all.

It was refreshing – a concept that rather took her off guard, for it was the first time she had ever thought so. (But it wouldn't be the last.)

"Well?" he asked, sounding somewhat impatient with her. "Now that you've interrupted the first moment I've had to myself in weeks, what do you want?"

Rannve bit her lip to prevent a grin from capturing them, and replied, "I just thought it might be a good idea to tell you what you'd be getting into if you travel to Blackreach with me."

Onmund gave her a look and said, "I've heard plenty of stories about Blackreach, thank you very much. I know how dangerous it's supposed to be."

His offhanded remark made Rannve tilt her head and muse, "Yes, well. In my experience, stories tend to play down the dangerous bits – at least where it concerns dragon legends, which I happen to be very knowledgeable in considering that I'm the – "

"Dragonborn, yes I know," Onmund finished for her, tossing his towel onto the bed with a casual flick of his wrist. He lifted his hands to adjust the ties of his tunic as he muttered, "As if I could ever forget."

This time, Rannve didn't bother biting her smile away, and her face split over with a crooked grin that made Onmund's heart do a funny little thing in his chest that he adamantly ignored.

"I'm only saying that you haven't exactly had much…experience dealing with Falmer and Dwemer automatons is all," she waved her hand breezily.

A bit chagrined at the blatant manner in which she was calling him out, Onmund retorted, "That's true enough, but I know my way around destruction spells!"

…At least, he knew the basics and several higher level spells that J'zargo had taught him outside of class, and he was fairly adept at Restoration. It's only that…practical application of such things was a little difficult to administer within the safe walls of the College. But such a thing was easily overcome! After all, he had spent the last few years dedicating himself to learning all manner of magical incantations that would surely be useful, especially if they happened to need a water-breathing spell or a candlelight spell or a transmutation spell. Be able to turn iron into silver was a great thing to know! …Right? And who knows when they would need to swim great distances underwater!

"Do you?" Rannve questioned, and to his dismay, she sounded a little skeptical. When she noticed his expression, she added, "You're a good student – far better than me – but we will be traveling into one of the most dangerous places in Skyrim, Onmund. I cannot guarantee your safety."

Feeling a little prickly at her skepticism (though admittedly, a part of him understood the point she was making), Onmund drew himself to full height and eagerly said, "I want to go. I might as well make myself useful, otherwise I'd just be sitting around here for the next two months until the suspension is over. Besides, you already said I'd have a place by your side."

Rannve had said that, and at the time, she had meant it. She still meant it. It was only that she herself was a little unnerved at the prospect of venturing so far underground into the bowels of Blackreach, and she didn't want any harm to come to him. The legends of Blackreach were dark and dangerous. If the stories held any truth, the deep cavern would be crawling with far more Falmer than even she had ever dealt with at one time, and Dwemer ruins were a tricky business. There was no telling what else lurked beneath the underbelly of Alftand. What horrors awaited them, she could not even venture to guess.

As she mulled this over, Rannve studied Onmund once more. This time, the manner in which she looked upon him was far removed from the way she had studied him before. This time, she was not purely appreciating the unexpectedly pleasant sight he made. This time she was deliberating on what to do.

He stood straighter beneath the scrutiny of her eyes, no doubt guessing at the nature of her musings. Arrogant nature aside, Rannve was the Dragonborn, a hero that had stepped right out of the legends he was so enamored with as a boy. He wanted to go with her! He wanted to carve out a name for himself as the Dragonborn's Battlemage. As silly and childish as it sounded, even to him, he would not budge on this desire.

Rannve must have seen some trace of that stubbornness in the set of his jaw. After a long moment, she hummed and simply said, "We leave before dawn. Don't sleep in."

And with that, she turned on her heel and left just as quickly as she'd arrived, not even pausing to witness the wide grin that split over Onmund's face. Perhaps if she had lingered long enough to notice, she might have been able to put a name to that strange feeling battering through her heart, but –

As the poets say, ignorance is bliss. Or in Rannve's case, it's just plain stupidity.


	17. Sparks

**A/N: In which Rannve and Onmund finally start their journey, Onmund isn't entirely impressed with Rannve's methods, and more teasing ensues.**

 **Because it took me so long to update, I'm posting two chapters! I'll be updating again within the next few days.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen | Sparks**

Onmund wasn't sure what he had gotten himself into. Traveling with Rannve was…consuming, and not necessarily in a good way.

"I told you we should've taken the mountain pass at the foot of the Narrow Straights," he snarked at her. His voice lifted up and was carried away by the harsh winds that blew at them from every direction. With them brought heavy snow that battered against his skin and made him yearn for the comfort of the College. He never would've thought he'd miss Urag's precious library, but the roaring fire that eternally lit the hearth of it had him wishing for his table and the stack of books that would doubtlessly follow.

Up ahead, Rannve called back, "I know where I'm going!" The offended tone might have carried more weight had he been able to hear it more clearly, but as it was, he could hardly even see her and she was only a few feet ahead of him.

For a renowned hero whose confident spirit usually seemed to verge into downright arrogance, Rannve had a strange sense of direction. She seemed to think that getting lost in the wilderness was all part of the process. He hadn't seen her consult her map even once since they'd left Winterhold the day before, and his hero-worshipping tendencies, which might have bolstered his trust in her, were lacking.

"We're lost, admit it!" he yelled over the harsh wind. He normally wouldn't call her out on such a thing (she was, after all, the _Dragonborn_ ), but he'd stopped being able to move his fingers about an hour ago and he wanted to knock some sense into her.

He'd always figured her as a reckless, antagonistic person – her personality left him wondering, sometimes, how she had been able to gain such fierce popularity among their kinsmen – but honestly, she was just downright stubborn. Of course he shouldn't have been surprised by this. She was, after all, a Nord, and Nords were some of the most prideful creatures on the planet. He would know.

She looked over her shoulder at him, squinting through the blizzard, and obstinately called, "We're not lost! We just passed the twisted rock a while back, which means we're probably only a few hours away from Alftand!"

Onmund furrowed his brows at her. He suddenly wondered if most of her traveling companions found her as bizarre as he did at that moment. Did she always base her travels on sighting landmarks? He wasn't sure if he should feel enamored by this or annoyed, considering that he hadn't seen any such 'twisted rock'. What did that even mean?

Rannve was about to tell him to just trust her already and to stop questioning her every move when she noticed the way he was shivering from head to foot, and she sighed. He didn't hear the sigh of course. The wind was far too loud and piercing to catch the subtle exhale. It was just as well, because he probably would have taken offense to it, especially when she said a few moments later, "Let's find a place to bunker down for a few hours."

She wouldn't have stopped if it hadn't been for him, which Onmund knew, but the cold got in the way of his pride and he didn't argue. They traipsed through the snow about a hundred more yards until they stumbled upon the mouth of a cave, which would keep the harsh elements out and give them a moment's peace. Onmund was more than a little relieved.

Snow didn't bother him. He had the same thick skin that most Nords did when it came to the harsh weather of his homeland. But journeying for so long without a break, through a heavy storm such as this, was tiresome. He wasn't used to long treks across the wilderness. Not like she was.

Rannve didn't complain, for which he was grateful. She just told him to wait at the entrance of the cave until she was sure that it would be safe for them to make camp here, and disappeared into the dark bowels that stretched into the unknown. He sat down a ways into the cave and immediately began rubbing his hands together to get the feeling back into them.

When Rannve returned ten minutes later and declared the cave safe, they set about building a fire. Well – she built it, as he currently didn't have the finesse to move his fingers very well. When she saw this, she scooted over to him to take his hands and thrust them towards the flame, rubbing his fingers between hers as she did.

The action rather took him off guard, and, well, Onmund ended up floundering there with his hands in hers, staring at her as if she was a stranger. The expression made her mouth quirk up in humor, which snapped him out of it. (He hoped.)

"I told you you'd want gloves," she smirked arrogantly, and added, "Too bad you're too stubborn to listen to me."

The snarky comment made him huff, "I already told you, I need my hands free to cast – "

"At this rate, you won't have any hands at all," she cut in swiftly, and reached into her pack to hunt down the errant gloves. She'd tried to give them to him before they'd left Winderhold, but Onmund had told her the same thing he was saying now and she had let it go. He'd learn eventually, with or without her prodding, that she was usually right.

Rubbing his hands over the fire, he sighed, "Where do you reckon we are?"

Rannve hummed thoughtfully, abandoning her search for the gloves to instead gather her map. For the first time since they'd started their journey, she unrolled it and they huddled closer to study it.

"Somewhere around here, I think," she responded, pointing at a part of the mountain they were currently crossing.

"…And where's Alftand?" Onmund wondered, a bit lost with the sheer number of markers littering the paper.

After traveling with Rannve for the entire day and much of yesterday, he had a fairly good idea as to how she had come across the majority of these places. If her usual mode of travel was anything like what he had witnessed so far, then the answer was simple: she had stumbled unwittingly across each and every one. Once again, he wasn't sure if he was enamored by the thought or put off by it. She certainly wasn't the sort of Dragonborn he had expected; a fact that had become more and more evident over the course of the last couple of months.

Rannve pointed to a marking that was somewhat of a rarity on the paper, at least on this part of the map, and said, "Here. It'll be about half a day's walk. We might as well stay here for the night. It's probably as good as we're gonna get."

He nodded, sighing out as his fingers finally began to warm up enough for him to crack his knuckles, and murmurs, "I'm exhausted. I've never walked for so long in my entire life."

She smirked. "Really? From what I saw of you, you seem fairly muscular, for a mage."

The unexpected words were probably the best cure for his frozen body, because the blush that captured his body warmed him within seconds. He turned to her with an expression that was caught between shock and offense, and spluttered, "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

She just snorted. "Oh come on, Onmund. Mages aren't exactly known as hulking warriors. The ones I've encountered are all pretty weak and not very…well endowed, if you know what I mean." She smirked at him and nearly laughed aloud at the way his expression turned from shocked to downright mortified.

He swallowed tightly and asked, "Did you see - ?" then cut himself off, because he almost didn't even want to know.

She lifted an eyebrow and wondered, "Did I see what? More of you than you thought when you were in that bathtub?"

The teasing lilt of her voice did little to assuage his blushing countenance. He opened his mouth to respond to her, realized that he had no words, and shut it again. She laughed at him.

Nudging his shoulder, Rannve said, "Don't worry, you were perfectly prudish. You protected your virtue better than most maidens."

He coughed a little and spluttered, _"Prudish?"_

Maidens?!

The smirk she gave him then nearly stopped his heart. He had yet to figure out if her ability to do so was a good thing or a bad thing.

"I have no idea how you've rallied the entire country into adoring you," he retorted with a huff, and she laughed.

Shrugging away his comment, Rannve airily replied _, "You_ adore me."

He immediately opened his mouth to refute her but found that he could not. There was truth in her words – a truth that he had shown her since the first moment they'd met in Tolfdir's alteration lecture. He could not deny that he had the very same tendency towards hero-worship as most other Nords did, especially where it concerned the Dragonborn extraordinaire. He didn't exactly appreciate the snarky way she said it though.

Blushing, Onmund muttered, "Every Nord adores you. You're the _Dragonborn_. I'm hardly any different."

Rannve tilted her head at him, studying his bright eyes and the mage robes that swathed his figure. She wasn't so sure. She could hardly claim to have had a companion like Onmund before. She didn't give mages much credit – a tendency that was bred in part from a more traditional Nordic mindset. But Onmund _was_ different. She just wasn't entirely sure how.

"…I don't know," she mused after a moment, poking the small fire with an errant bit of kindling she had taken from the stack they'd lugged with them up the mountain. "You're not like any Nord I've ever met. Or mage, for that matter."

She meant it as a compliment, but Onmund took it with a hint of disparagement against his person as he mumbled, "Yeah I know. I'm not a very good Nord, and I'm not a very good mage either."

Truth be told, he didn't have much confidence about either his magical talents, which he often found lacking, or his Nordic heritage, which hardly went hand in hand with the mage lifestyle. Perhaps it was an ingrained response to the way his family had disagreed with him going to the College. Perhaps, had he stayed in his tiny farming community and tilled the earth for the rest of his life, he would have at least gotten half of it right.

But Rannve only raised her eyebrows at him and quipped, "Well I'm not a very good hero, but I'm not about to apologize to anyone for it."

At her words, Onmund turned to her with wide eyes and eagerly told her, "That's not true! You're the – "

"Dragonborn, yes I know," she interrupted, much to his chagrin. With a smirk, she said, "I'm also a thief and a vagabond on my off days, and I don't help anyone who doesn't have the money to pay me for my assistance. I'm a selfish person, Onmund. I'm not a great hero like Ysgramor. I wouldn't bend over backwards to help someone in need just for the hell of it."

He stared at her for a long moment, battling with his overarching tendencies toward revering her finer qualities. His thoughts drifted back to the way she had so callously snuck into Urag's chambers to steal the books that the librarian had stubbornly kept from her, and he felt his mouth twitch into a smile. The sight of it had Rannve smiling too, happy to have succeeded, at least a little bit, in making him feel better. As to why she felt pleased to have lifted his mood, she could not say, but neither could she deny the warmth that came unbidden to her heart at the sight of his expression.

Onmund chuckled. "We had a book of legends in my childhood home. I used to read them every night by the fire and pretend that I was a hero just like the warriors of old." He drifted off and looked over at her, and for some reason Rannve was taken aback by the way the fire caught his features, alighting them with a calm warmth that perfectly mirrored the glow of her own emotions. He studied her for a moment before saying, "When stories of the Dragonborn surfaced at the College a few years ago, I was amazed. But…it's funny, I guess. When I met you, you weren't anything like what I had expected."

Something moved within her at his words – a sort of baited anticipation that verged into anxious impatience. Rannve knew that she wasn't a typical hero and she didn't want to be, but she couldn't help but feel a little nervous at Onmund's words. She did not know if it was a good thing or not, being someone unexpected. Suddenly she found that she did not know a great many things, as she stared into Onmund's eyes and watched them flicker with unexpressed emotion.

"…What did you expect, a virtuous warrior maiden?" she sarcastically wondered, reverting back to the comfort of her nonchalance.

Onmund just laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

She scoffed at him and poked the fire again.

Watching her closely, he added, "It's not a bad thing though. I doubt any hero was as good hearted as the legends make them seem." And then, realizing how his words had sounded, he hurried to amend, "Not that you're not good hearted! I only meant – that is, you're much more _human_ than I imagined you to be. Which is…good. Truly."

Rannve wasn't entirely sure how to reply to that. She looked over at him with a raised eyebrow and drawled, "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

He paused, and then chuckled, rubbing his face with his hand and muttering, "I'm not good with words, but yes, it was."

She stared at him for a moment and chuckled too, deciding that she would take his blundering honesty over any insincere charm any day, and said, "Well then…thank you."

He peered over at her with a slightly surprised look on his face, as if he couldn't believe that she even knew how to say 'thank you', and replied, "Erm…you're welcome."

And she just rolled her eyes at him and nudged him a little bit, amused at his endearing floundering. There was something in her chest that felt like fire when she looked at him, and she rather liked it.


	18. Soul Trap

**A/N: In which our unlikely duo enters Alftand, they come across a few problems, and they get to know each other a little bit better.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen | Soul Trap**

They arrived at Alftand the next day, and Onmund was a little embarrassed to admit it, but he was in total awe. Admittedly, it wasn't an impressive sight from the outside. The entrance seemed to be in a rather dismal state of disrepair, and a thick blanket of snow covered much of the Dwemer architecture. Small hints of bronze could be seen through the haze of white, like little fallen stars that twinkled at him at every angle. While it made for a fascinating sight, it didn't have quite the same impact on him as the interior did.

"Talos," he breathed as the hulking doors swung shut, effectively closing them into the ruin. Rannve glanced at him as she joined him, raising an eyebrow at the wide eyed look on his face. Honestly. They were only in the doorway and he was already ogling the stones that they could still barely see beneath the layers of snow and ice.

She rolled her eyes at him and murmured, "Come along, Onmund. And stay silent." Then, unhooking her bow from her back, she stepped forward with far more stealthy prowess than he had yet seen from her.

Having never been inside this particular Dwemer city, Rannve was even more on edge than usual as they slowly made their way into its bowels. Perhaps it was the location of it on the tip of the mountain, but the entire thing was wrapped up in ice. It made for an intriguing sight, if nothing else, and she could tell that Onmund was fascinated by it. His fascination, though, took an abrupt turn when they came across the first sign of danger.

Now Rannve happened to be fairly knowledgeable about Dwemer ruins. She tended to avoid them unless absolutely necessary, but she'd been in several over the last few years since she had ascended to the title of Dragonborn. Falmer were a nasty business that was best avoided, but the worst enemies of all were the automatons. In her experience, they had a terrible tendency of sneaking up on you – and they were annoyingly hard to dispose of unless you knew the way they worked.

They were entering a larger chamber, that was slightly less icy now that they were deeper underground, when they stumbled upon their first difficulty. It was a dwarven spider, and Onmund nearly walked right into it. He would have, had Rannve not grabbed his arm and lurched him back. He clamored noisily backwards, nearly falling right into the rusted edge of a fallen pipe, and made quite a loud ruckus in the process. The combination of his surprised exclamation from her sudden actions and the clamor of the pipe as he fell against it certainly captured the attention of several other metal spiders, who wasted very little time in racing towards them.

Rannve had fought much more challenging enemies, but she still had a bit of a hard time with three of them crawling towards them and a rather useless Onmund at her back. He could only gape at the scene in front of him, having never before seen Rannve in action with the deadly looking swords she often kept strapped to her sides. He was a little embarrassed to say that he froze up, and ended up leaning against the pipe rather fruitlessly as Rannve finished off the spiders with an expert twist of her swords, stepping back just in time to avoid getting caught up in the aftermath of the sparks that flew from their frames.

Talos. Not for the first time – or the last – Onmund wondered what he had gotten himself into.

Rannve wondered that too. She turned to him, wiped her brow with the back of her hand, and callously said, "Next time, a ward might have been helpful."

He was embarrassed enough to blush. The sight of it made her take pity on him. With a sigh, she sheathed her swords and told him, "You'll get the hang of it. By the time we're out of here, you'll be the best battlemage in history."

She was, admittedly, being a little too polite – a rare thing, to be sure, considering how her normal reaction to most situations was a sarcastic, arrogant retort. Onmund blundered up into a standing position and cleared his throat awkwardly, all too aware that Rannve was giving him the out.

He pursed his lips and replied, "I…er, yes, I'll…keep that in mind. A ward…of course." Feeling even more awkward, he cleared his throat again and Rannve rolled her eyes at him.

She turned to face him fully and drawled, "We've barely scratched the surface of this place, Onmund. If you don't wish to go any further, I wouldn't think less of you. There will be many more dangers the deeper we go. Automatons and Falmer run rampant in these ruins, and who knows what else awaits us in the depths of Blackreach?"

Her words were a warning that made him shift on his feet, studying the walls of the chamber as he pondered her words and the reasons he had wanted to come here to begin with. He knew innately that this was to be the last warning of its kind; that he would get no further opportunity to leave this ruin until their quest had reached its end – or his own life did. To say that this did not give him pause would have been a blatant lie. However…

He also knew, somehow, that he would never have another chance like this for the rest of his life. To go on an adventure with the renowned Dragonborn, the one destined to save Skyrim, would have been something his childhood self would have jumped to do. He'd had his own adventures – leaving home had been the greatest of them all – but this one…

Well, as he looked around at the stonework that spanned the room before him, at the hand carved remnants of a world that no longer flourished as it once had in the deep underbelly of the world, something inside of him shifted. He could not say with any surety what part of him felt the shift. Perhaps it was his mage side – the part that hungered for knowledge. Perhaps it was because he was a Nord, and even though he didn't always act like it, his blood still yearned for the wild pull of adventure.

In any case, Rannve already knew his answer before he said it aloud. She saw it in the firm clench of his jaw and in the curiosity blazing through his eyes. There was a thirst there, hidden just below the surface of his gaze. A thirst that she knew very well, for it often called out to her, too.

Without even bothering to wait for the words that she knew was coming, Rannve gave him a smile and tilted her head towards the other end of the chamber. "Let's go, then. Worry not, Onmund. I shall protect you as well as I am able – but perhaps you should practice those wards when we make camp, hmm?"

The suggestion wasn't _really_ a suggestion. She fully intended on forcing him to practice if need be. She wasn't lying when she said she'd protect him as much as she could, but neither could she afford to have dead weight on a quest of this caliber. She couldn't hold his hand through it all or let him sit down on errant pipes and watch her do all the work like he'd done today. This wasn't a typical, run of the mill mission; this was a trip into Blackreach itself, and that meant that he would not have the opportunity to sit out on all the battles they would surely get into over the course of it.

Still a bit embarrassed about the recent events, Onmund staunchly responded, "I will!" There was a little bit of hero-worship in the tones of his voice, which they both noticed, and he cleared his throat again and murmured, "Ah…I mean, you don't have to worry about me."

Rannve snorted and dryly responded, "Unfortunately, I'm not so sure about _that."_

He gave her a petulant glower, but she had already turned and was walking towards an impressive stone table to peruse the contents resting on top of it.

"What's that?" Onmund questioned, seeing her lift a weathered looking journal and open the cover.

Rannve hummed thoughtfully as she leafed through the book and murmured, "Some sort of account on the excavation here, probably written by a mage scholar…" The words were spoken point-blank, as if she hadn't a doubt in her mind. It certainly piqued Onmund's curiosity.

"How'd you figure that?" he asked idly, leaning forward to study a slab of bronze metal that was laying on the table, unassumingly shining in the dull blue light of the nearby dwarven electrical mechanisms that were tapped into the wall.

Rannve smirked at him from over the cover of the book and drawled, "Because it sounds overly confident and far too self-assured."

The snarky way she said it made him roll his eyes at her. "You know, not all mages are know-it-alls. I'd say you're pretty bad yourself." He crossed his arms at her and watched her smirk widen.

A few months ago, he never would have said something like that to the Dragonborn, but a few months ago, he hadn't realized how arrogant and impatient said heroine was. Plus, Rannve seemed to enjoy when he talked back to her. He could only assume it was just a part of her charm, which he was beginning to find immensely questionable – and, inexplicably, very addicting.

"If you wielded your magic with as much prowess as your words, we'd be out of here in just a matter of _days,"_ she laughed, closing the journal and slipping it into her satchel to read at a later time. It would be useful to know what the scholars had discovered. Any warning regarding potential dangers would be welcomed, even _if_ it came in the form of elaborately disparaging comments.

Onmund sighed at her and abruptly wondered, "How long do you think it will take to go through Blackreach?"

He had only ever heard stories about the place. No one had successfully excavated Alftand, or any of the other Dwemer cities that Blackreach was connected to. No one had even really known where it was located, until Septimus had pointed them in this direction. He suspected that these scholars who had begun excavating these ruins hadn't even realized what they were digging up. Which begged the question as to what had happened to them all, but – Onmund would consider that later, after the opportunity to turn back had vanished. He did not want his own wayward thoughts to send him back to the surface before he could truly see what he was capable of.

Rannve shrugged, turning back to the chamber and starting towards the other end of it, where the sweeping cavern turned into a smaller passageway that no doubt led deeper into the place. As she headed to the opening of it, she murmured, "A few weeks, most likely," as if the thought of spending that amount of time in a place like this was nothing at all.

But to Onmund…it was something.

"A few _weeks?"_ he repeated, sounding surprised. She turned to catch his eye and raised a brow at him, which made him splutter, "Why didn't you tell me that earlier?"

She gave him a strange look, paused thoughtfully, and then responded, "…You never asked."

If Onmund had a septim for every time Rannve had taken him off guard so far, he'd be richer than her. It seemed that she almost enjoyed the shocked expressions he'd give her whenever she succeeded in surprising him, like she actually enjoyed it! He pursed his mouth at her and muttered, "Talos preserve me…" under his breath.

Rannve only snickered and drawled, "Arkay might be a better god to invoke in your particular case." At his clueless look, she smirked and added, "He's the god of life and death, isn't he? Talos would sooner tell you to preserve _yourself."_

Onmund rolled his eyes at her. She always had an answer for everything! It both aggravated him and amused him in equal measure, to such a degree that he often didn't know which emotion was stronger of the two.

"And I suppose you're an expert in worshiping the nine divines?" he questioned in a sardonic voice as he followed her quietly through the next tunnel, flexing his hands at his sides just in case he needed to call upon his magic. He wanted to be prepared next time, so as to avoid any future blunders that would make Rannve question his ability to hold his own.

Ahead of him, she shrugged, "I'm fairly learned where it concerns Aedra. And Daedra too, for that matter. They all have a tendency of trying to claim my soul. Annoying, really."

Surprised at this for several reasons (the least of which was Rannve's seeming lack of concern regarding the state of her own soul), Onmund replied, "What does that even mean? Have you communed with the divines?" He decided not to ask about the Daedra, at least not right at this moment. Those spirits were widely seen as negative entities, and often had a tendency of poking around in mortal affairs, especially where they were not wanted. The thought of her having anything to do with the Daedra made him shiver.

His question made Rannve scoff. "I haven't done anything. _They're_ the ones who want me. They seem to think that they all have a claim over me since I'm the Dragonborn. Even _Sanguine_ wants me at his eternal party."

She rolled her eyes, remembering her dealings with the Daedric Prince a little too clearly for her liking, and didn't see Onmund's look of horror as he stared at her back.

"Sanguine? The Prince of Debauchery?" he whispered, his voice only a hiss through the silent darkness.

She grumbled, "Mmm. Meridia's the worst of them all though. She's convinced that she's tricked me into serving her in the afterlife even though I made no such promise. Stupid hag."

If he was surprised at the mention of Sanguine, it was nothing to his shock when Meridia's name was mentioned.

"Meridia?!" he questioned, and demanded, "Just how many Daedric Princes have tried to claim you?"

The mere thought of there being some twisted battle over the Dragonborn's soul made him grimace. He was suddenly thankful that he was not in her boots. He would no doubt quake with fear if any of the Daedric Princes contacted him. They weren't exactly the trustworthy sort, and they tended to mess with the lives of mortals wherever they went without mercy.

Rannve paused, tilting her head as she considered his question. After a moment, she shrugged, "Malacath doesn't seem very interested, and Sheogorath has surprisingly kept out of it so far. Though knowing him, he'll find a way to get involved when I least expect it, just for the shock factor."

Onmund gaped at her. This time, she had turned towards him enough to notice, and chuckled at his expression with an amused look on her face, as if she thought that this entire conversation was hilarious and didn't require her to be at all concerned. Shock factor indeed. He was pretty shocked himself right about now. He honestly wasn't sure if he admired her own disregard for her soul or if he thought she was crazy. At this point, he suspected that it was a little bit of both – and probably always would be, no matter what topic was up for discussion.

"It doesn't matter," she told him after a moment. "I have no intention of being under the ownership of Daedric Princes. They can fight over me all they want, but I'm going to Sovngarde. Drinking ale and battling with the famous heroes of old is something I'm looking forward to, you know."

Onmund smiled at her, picturing her doing exactly that. A Nord like her wouldn't go anywhere else, he reasoned – though he did wonder if the Daedra would be so willing to let her go that easily. Perhaps she would annoy them so much with her arrogant retorts that they'd just give her away. He chuckled at the thought and said, "Perhaps we'll see each other in those golden halls, one day."

There was a strange cadence to his voice that he had not quite meant to be there – an almost nostalgic humor. It was a nice thought, after all. He certainly wouldn't mind bearing witness to her 'heroic battles' in the afterlife, even if she was far more arrogant and impatient than he had expected before meeting her.

Rannve grinned at him over her shoulder and snarked, "Do you think they let mages in?"

At once, he glowered at her and replied insistently, "I'm a _Nord_ mage – "

"I was only joking," she chuckled, nudging him a little with her shoulder. And, turning to face him, she quietly said, "As if I could forget. You have quite an impressive physique. I think it's the broad shoulders." She smirked at him, eyeing said shoulders with a look on her face that made him blush. (And thank Talos that it was dark enough to hide it, because he feared it got worse when he recalled the way she'd barged in on him in the bath - )

Nudging her back to put some space between them lest he do something he may regret, Onmund sighed, "Let's keep going. I'd rather not spend more time down here than I absolutely have to."

She only hummed in agreement and thankfully turned away, continuing her quiet, near silent walk through the icy tunnels. She did not know what awaited them down in the depths of Blackreach, but to her surprise, Rannve found that the usual sense of urgency to get through the quest did not play upon her now. Perhaps it was the almost peaceful silence that cascaded through the darkness and the thrill of the adventure that discovering Blackreach would afford her. Perhaps it was merely the presence of her mage companion at her side.

She could not yet tell which held more weight, but by the time the pair of them resurfaced from the deep caverns of the earth, there would no longer be any doubt, any hesitation, nor any ambiguity regarding what lay dormant in her heart.


	19. Incinerate

**A/N: In which Onmund meets his first skooma addict.**

 **Please enjoy! I am going to try to update every other day since I've got lots of chapters written for this story. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen | Incinerate**

By the time the day was over – or at least, from what Rannve could tell based on her internal clock – she remembered why she usually avoided mages. Onmund was not exactly cut out for this sort of thing. Adventuring, that is. He became more and more jumpy the further down they descended, and it was making her nervous as a result. She knew she was being a little judgmental for reasons that did not truly have a place. Onmund was merely…untried, in a way she was not. It had very little to do with him being a mage, and much more to do with the fact that he did not often venture into the deep, dark places of the earth for fun.

They were wildly different sorts of people for that reason alone.

They ended up discovering a rather strange encampment only a few hours after their brief run-in with the Dwemer spiders. A few more smaller automatons had been dealt with since – thankfully with Onmund's assistance, this time – but their first real problem lay up ahead.

The first whisper of its presence came in a far more literal way than Rannve would have ever imagined. She heard the faint sound of a voice echoing through the icy cavern. Her initial thought was that it was a stray adventurer that had gotten lost. She couldn't imagine that it could be anything else, considering how bandits who inhabited Dwemer ruins tended to stay up at the surface and were unlikely to traverse so far down their halls.

She glanced over at Onmund with a cautious expression, and he whispered, "What should we do?"

He would look to her for guidance. He was out of his depth in here, both literally and figuratively, and Rannve had far more experience than he did where it concerned Dwemer ruins and…well, everything, really, that didn't have to do with studying and magic. He watched her as she thoughtfully twisted her sword in her hand, noting how comfortable she looked even now. He wished he could claim to be half as unconcerned with this new happenstance. After all, Automatons and Falmer were one thing, but a human being? He hadn't considered that he'd have to fight his own kin. The thought unnerved him.

"We don't know yet if he's friend or foe," she responded after a moment, voice almost so quiet that he had to lean in to hear her. The scent of wilderness and pine washed over him, and he realized that he had never been so close to her before. The only other time had been when she had dragged him into that exhilarating kiss, but he hadn't exactly been in his right mind at the point to notice how she smelled.

A subtle wave of attraction coursed through him until he was able to batter it down. This was not the time to be mooning over her. He'd rather thought he had gotten a pretty good handle over those tendencies, but apparently not.

She caught his eye, too swept up in thought to notice the way his breathing had shallowed out or the way he was staring at her, and murmured, "Let's proceed carefully. Be ready just in case."

He nodded, swallowing tightly as she crept forward. The voice had gotten louder, and he guessed that whoever belonged to it was fairly close by. Either that, or these caverns echoed a lot more than he'd thought. He hoped it was the latter, but unfortunately, his luck had taken a downward turn this time around.

The Khajiit that the voice belonged to noticed them faster than Rannve would have liked, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had a wild look in his eyes as he took them in, and mused to himself in a rather strange manner, "What? Who is this, brother? Another of the smooth skins looking for food?"

Onmund swept his eyes past him to see who he was talking to, but found the icy tunnel behind the Khajiit to be empty. Surely he wasn't talking to himself? He looked back at the creature dressed in dirty rags and wondered if perhaps he had gone crazy down here, left to wander the halls of this place without hope of finding his way back to the upper tiers of the desolate underground city. A shard of pity moved Onmund at the thought. He lowered his hands just as Rannve raised hers.

The Khajiit's expression turned abruptly angry at the sight of Rannve's gleaming sword. With an exclamation that rattled through his mangled body, he cried, "No…no! You must be the one who took my skooma!"

Unexpectedly, at least for Onmund, the Khajiit threw himself forward with his fists raised up. He had no other defenses save for his hands and the psychotic sheen that had taken hold of his eyes, but it certainly didn't stop him from shouting, "My skooma! Where did you put it, smooth skin?!"

Though Onmund did not see it, Rannve was also taken aback by the sight before them. It was so bizarre and unexpected down here in this ruin that, despite having her sword raised in front of her in defense, the Khajiit's surprisingly quick movements made her take a step back. She did not want to hurt him. It was clear that the creature had gone insane down here, if the sound of him talking to his nonexistent brother and his apparent addiction for skooma was anything to go by. Unfortunately though, it didn't matter that she'd prefer not getting into a fight with the clearly insane Khajiit, for he seemed to want to get into a fight with her.

Khajiit were known for their quick movements, and despite being down here for however long he was, this one hadn't lost any of his agility. He knocked Rannve's sword away with his outer arm and drew a dagger from inside a fold of his boot, snatching it up so quickly that Rannve almost didn't notice the gleam of silver until it was inches away from her face.

So far, Onmund had never seen her falter in a fight. She had dealt with the dwarven spiders in a seamlessly efficient manner, taking them out as easily as she drew breath. The difference in this instance was the fact that this was no hunk of metal – it was a living breathing Khajiit, and though she did not always adhere to her own moral compass, Rannve found that it was somewhat difficult to turn away from it now.

She pushed the Khajiit back with a push of her boot, but he only used the momentum to swing to her left and slash at her side. Luckily, she evaded the attack, dodging away from the blade before it could so much as make a dent in her armor, but the Khajiit seemed to have expected her move. The next moment, he was raising a fist and slamming it against Rannve's face with a force that sent her head sideways. That was about the time where she got a little angry…but she wasn't the only one.

He truly didn't know what came over him, but the moment he heard the small gasp of pain that flew from Rannve's throat, Onmund raised his hands and conjured a fierce fireball, hurling it at the Khajiit just as he was twisting his dagger towards Rannve. The flame blasted right into his face, plowing him back a few steps and making him scream out in agony as the magic fire melted his skin and scorched over his fur.

Indeed, the sound that left the Khajiit's throat as he slipped on the icy floor and fell onto his back, writhing and moaning as the fire burned into his skull, would not be one that Onmund would soon forget. Nor would the sound of utter silence that could only come as the result of death.

Onmund stared at the mangled body with a horrified expression as he realized that he had taken a life. It had all happened so quickly, so abruptly – and his actions, so thoughtlessly done – that it seemed as though he was left miles behind, watching the situation as a ghost might watch from the folds of time and space. He felt…well, he didn't know what he felt, only that his entire body seemed to grow numb the longer he stared at the Khajiit's form.

Looking utterly aghast at his own actions, he could do nothing but stand there and stare. His hands were still outstretched from the way he had cast the spell, though the flame that he had conjured had long diminished. He hardly even remembered that Rannve was there as well until he felt her hands on his face, turning him to face her. That she stepped directly in the line of his vision, effectively blocking the sight of the body, did not escape him.

"Onmund…Onmund! Talos, say something!" she said, repeating his name as if she hoped that it would draw him out of whatever place his mind had thrust him into.

To be honest, she was a little worried. She had never seen that expression on his face before. She understood, though. The first kill was always the hardest, especially for someone who had never done anything like this before. Onmund had probably never thought he would be in this situation. He was wholly unprepared for the consequences that she knew were broiling through him. Taking human life was not easy, and even Rannve had to admit that his method had been…well, gruesome.

Indeed, that was a good word for it. He could still see the mangled face quite clearly in his mind's eye despite the way Rannve was blocking the body. The scorched fur and melted skin was a constant vision before him. He could hardly think about anything else, could hardly concentrate on anything but the sinister pull of adrenaline coursing through his body and sharpening his senses. The smell of burnt flesh was certainly not helping.

When she began to lead him through the tunnels, Onmund did not know. All he knew was that when he next took notice of his surroundings, Rannve was carefully guiding him forward with her arm hooked around his and her hand tightly grasping his own. And then, as if a wave of reality crested through him, he shakily asked, "…Are you alright?"

Rannve paused to stare at him. He couldn't decipher the look in her eyes, only that she appeared to be somewhat surprised at the question.

To be honest, getting punched in the face was nothing compared to the other injuries she had received in times past, but she decided to keep her mouth shut on the matter. Onmund already looked shaken and upset, and she had a feeling that a conversation about her other battles would not go down terribly well at this moment in time.

She let out a surprised, humorless laugh and incredulously wondered, "You're asking if _I'm_ alright?"

He clearly didn't realize just how pale he was or just how badly his hands were trembling. She decided not to call attention to that, either. Nord pride was a terribly extensive thing.

Now clear-headed enough to speak, his eyes zeroed in on the bruise that was forming across Rannve's cheekbone. Without thinking, he lifted his hand to gently trace it, thumbing over the mottled skin with a strange look in his eyes, as if he was mourning the fact that she had received it. And – strangely enough, Rannve's heart did a very odd thing in her chest at his errant touch.

Perhaps it was merely the focused attention of his gaze; perhaps the fact that he seemed to be more aware of her own injuries than of his inner demons for now. He stared at the bruise with a steadfast concentration that she had never seen directed at her before. It made her forget, for a split second, how to breathe.

"We should make camp and get some rest. I have a feeling we could both use it," she whispered, and was slightly taken aback at the tremors that wove their way through her words. She held her breath as Onmund's fingers slowly slid down her face, brushing over the corner of her mouth before dropping away entirely. His eyes lifted to hers and they shared a look that could not be put into words alone – only felt, as one might feel the bareness of an ocean breeze shift through one's soul.

Normally, he might have blushed at their proximity and at the way he had so boldly touched her, but there was something inside him that was still numb to the usual course of his emotions, and Onmund only nodded. She squeezed his hand, which was still wrapped up in hers, and led him forward. He allowed her to, blindly following her down several more tunnels as she hunted for a decent place to make camp.

And, as she did, he reveled in the way her fingers fit into his, and in the way she had looked at him, before – it was a look that his dreams alone could conjure! – and he tried very hard to think only of her and not of the memory of the nameless Khajiit laying on the cruel ice not very far away.

But – he feared that, despite the way his heart longed to press her warmth into his memory, his thoughts only spiraled deeper into the realization that today his fire had been the bringer of death.


	20. Dread Zombie

**A/N: In which Onmund deals with the repercussions of his first kill, and Rannve tries to give him what comfort she can.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty | Dread Zombie**

Onmund fell into a strange, deep silence as Rannve prepared their makeshift camp. Once she got a fire going, he stationed himself in front of it and began feeding it some of the wooden planks that she had tore off of a few errant barrels from the previous occupants of this place. She could only assume that the Khajiit had been a member of the excavation party. After she had laid out their bedrolls and dug around for some rations to quell their hunger, she began flipping through the journal to see if she was correct.

There was no specific mention of any Khajiit, but there were a few names that sounded like they were Khajiit in origin. Mention of a pair of brothers was what cemented her suspicions, as she recalled the way the insane creature had been speaking before they had stumbled rather unwittingly upon him. She looked up from the journal, opening her mouth to bring this to Onmund's attention, and nearly fell over in shock at the realization that he was no longer there.

"Onmund?" she exclaimed, louder than was perhaps smart in these tunnels, and immediately paused as her voice carried through the enclosed space. Once it had faded, she hurriedly threw the journal down onto her bedroll and stood, patting her side to ensure that her blade was still there as she stormed off in search for her wayward mage. How he had managed to slip by without her notice shocked her. She must have been too focused on the words to see his disappearing act.

As she stalked through the tunnels the way they'd come, her annoyance crested up within her. He should know better than to meander off like this! Danger lurked behind every corner. Who knows if there were any more insane remnants of that failed excavation – or any lingering dwarven spiders that had escaped her notice earlier that day? At this point, she wouldn't necessarily be surprised if there was, for it seemed that a great deal escaped her notice where it concerned Onmund.

When she found him, though, her anger slid away from her like water. In its place was a cautious pity that made her sigh.

He looked up at her approach and immediately said, "I'm sorry – I suppose I should have told you where I went."

She wanted to tell him that he _should_ have. She felt responsible for him. She certainly didn't want to have to explain to the Arch-Mage why his wayward student had failed to return – Talos forbid. And besides that, there was something else eating away at her mind whenever she looked at him. Something that she could not identify fully, but knew only that he meant something more to her than she had thought. But – the sight of him kneeling down beside the body of the Khajiit quelled her angry words before they could even form.

"…What are you doing, Onmund?" she asked tiredly, rubbing her hand over her forehead. She almost didn't want an answer, but she knew that she couldn't very well remain silent on the matter.

He looked up at her, then down at the Khajiit, and said haltingly, "I…I thought maybe I could bury him, or…or something." Even as he said the words, he cringed, knowing that it was a futile cause. He felt that he at least had to try. The guilt was eating away at him.

Rannve remained silent at his explanation. He sighed and rocked back on his heels to look up at her. The sight of his face made her swallow.

"In the ice?" she managed to ask, frankly unsure what to say. The question only made him cringe again, and she sighed. Quietly, she stepped forward to put a hand on his shoulder and murmur, "I know it isn't easy – "

"You make it look as easy as breathing," he interrupted before she could say anything more. Then, looking a bit dismayed at cutting her off in such a petulant manner, Onmund dragged a hand over his face and muttered, "I didn't mean that. I mean, I did, but not quite… _that."_

Talos, what was he even saying? As they had continued on their way, he had felt far more capable. But now, he felt as if he was back at square one – unsure of himself, not quite confident in his abilities, and very much out of his league. And it was true: Rannve did make it look easy. She knew her way around a fight, and he…he stumbled his way through those very same fights. His own inexperience was galling to him.

Rannve paused again, grasping his shoulder tightly as she considered what she should say. Truth be told, she wasn't very well versed when it came to making people feel better. She tended to skirt around those awkward conversations as much as possible, preferring not to linger in the recesses of those darker emotions unless absolutely necessary. In this moment, though, she rather wished she was a little more charismatic.

"Let's go back to the camp, Onmund. There's nothing we can do for him," was all she said after a lengthy pause.

He grimaced but did not argue. Instead, he merely lay a hand on the Khajiit's chest and murmured, "Arkay guide you," before standing up and straightening out his robes.

Rannve didn't comment on his prayer. She just took his arm and they walked back through the tunnels to where their camp was located. When they settled back down onto their bedrolls, she shifted a little and handed him some of the dried meat. He silently started eating, appearing to bury himself into the very same mental prison he had been inside for the last two hours since the fight. This time, however, Rannve didn't let him.

She chewed on a bit of dried meat and murmured rather abruptly, "My first kill was a bandit." The two words made him look over at her in confusion, until she explained, "He was going to kill me – I saw it in his eyes – so I thrust my dagger into his throat before he had the chance. It was…bloody. I didn't have the opportunity to bathe for a while afterwards, so there was still traces of his blood on my hands for days." She trailed off, gazing into the fire with a strange look on her face: half nostalgic, half disgusted. "I'll never forget the sound of his choking, nor the sight of his life leaving his eyes."

Onmund stared at her in surprise, having not expected such a story – or the fact that she was actually trying to comfort him, in her own way. He'd gotten to know Rannve well enough by now to know that this was a rarity in itself.

She threw him a shrug and said, "It is never _easy,_ Onmund. It's just something you grow accustomed to."

Her words and her tone made him feel slightly better, if a little chagrined, and he leaned back on his pillow with a sigh, knee propped up as he turned to face her. In a quiet voice, he murmured, "…I do not want to grow accustomed to it."

He was surprised once more when she smiled softly at him. It was a different smile than any he had come to expect from her. It made her gentler, in a way that he was not used to. He thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he _could_ grow accustomed to the sight she made now.

"Then don't," she answered quite simply – also a surprise. When wouldn't she surprise him, he wondered. Would she always take him off guard with such ease? She turned back to the fire and said, "I've met many unsavory people in my line of work. Some of them embrace the darkness completely. Some revel in their kills as if it is something to be celebrated. And yet others…others take life only when it is necessary, like you did today."

He stared at her and shook his head, "It wasn't necessary. We might've been able to talk him down."

She looked up at him with serious eyes and responded, "We might have _tried,_ but I do not think it would have worked."

Onmund swallowed thickly and whispered, "You don't know that for sure."

The fire crackled between them, sparking with a life that was otherwise absent in this icy tunnel. Absent, that is, save for the way she looked at him, with eyes that he was beginning to suspect held far more emotion than she wanted to ever admit to.

"…No, I don't," she replied after a long pause. "But I do know that the more you question yourself on your actions, the worse you'll feel."

He fell silent at that, knowing that she was at least partially correct. It helped a little bit, but the sheer amount of guilt that was curdling through his veins overpowered what little comfort her words lent.

She must have seen the spin of it in his eyes, because after a moment, Rannve shifted closer to him, until she was pressed into his side with the journal in her hands. Onmund looked down at her in confusion, unsure as to what she was doing until she said rather stoutly, "I'm cold. I might as well make use of you."

And – honestly, some part of him knew that she wasn't really cold, despite the icy floor of the tunnel and the crisp air around them. Some part of him, however small, knew that she was only doing this because she wanted to make him feel better. But really, he didn't give that part of him a whole lot of thought as he hesitantly wrapped an arm around her shoulders and edged closer to her, fitting her against his side in a manner that was endearingly awkward.

Rannve said nothing more, only opened the journal and began reading where she left off, and as for Onmund…

Well, he inhaled the scent of pine and wilderness and tried once more to close himself off to the guilt that prickled at his skin every time he thought about the Khajiit. And he wasn't sure if it was because Rannve was nestled against him, warming him just as much as he warmed her, but he found that it was startlingly easy to focus only on the sound of her breathing and the spin of her voice as she began reading the journal entries aloud.

So easy, in fact, that he found himself completely lost to her within the breadth of a moment – the same amount of time that it took for his heart to fall ever deeper for the brazen woman at his side.


	21. Thunderbolt

**A/N: In which Onmund's magic comes in handy, and he feels a bit more competent to be the Dragonborn's companion.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty One | Thunderbolt**

Something between them was altered, somehow, after that evening. Neither of them could pinpoint what it was, exactly, but there was something changed in the dynamic between them. Something that felt sweet in all this darkness. When Onmund awake the next morning to find Rannve huddled against him in his bedroll, he knew that he would never be able to sleep by himself without remembering the warmth of her body pressed to his. When she rolled over with a loud yawn and elbowed him in the ribs, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Oh, sorry," she mumbled, half-awake as she glanced at him through bleary eyes. Her dashing smirk was clearly visible despite her face being partially hidden with the fur blanket, and it did something to him that he would not admit out loud.

"You snore, did you know that?" he asked, stretching his arms over his head and glowering halfheartedly over at her. Halfhearted, because it was rather difficult to conjure any true negativity when she was sighing out as she rested against his shoulder.

How in Mara's name did _this_ happen? Not that he was complaining, mind you. He could have done with the hard press of her armor against his arm, but to be honest, he doubted it mattered all that much. Especially when Rannve wrinkled her nose at him and drawled, "I do not," in a petulant voice.

He chuckled at her tone and amended, "You do a little bit."

She didn't seem to appreciate the comment because after a moment, she pushed herself into a sitting position with a snarky, "Well I guess you'll just have to deal with it then, considering that we'll be spending many more nights huddled up together like this." Then, wagging her eyebrows callously at him, she smirked triumphantly when his cheeks took on the slightest tinge of a blush.

Grumbling to himself, Onmund sat up and mumbled, "You always have to have the last word."

She just laughed and began rolling up the bedroll that she hadn't bothered using last night, as she seemed to have favored Onmund's instead. Honestly, that hadn't been her plan. She must have fallen asleep while she was reading the journal, because when she had woken up next, the two of them were entangled rather snugly and Onmund had pulled the fur blanket over them to stave off the cold. And, well – he was so warm and his shoulder made such a great pillow that Rannve had promptly fallen back asleep without bothering to do anything about the situation.

"Here," she said, tossing him a bit of dried fruit as she riffled through her pack and began tying the bedroll back into place. He caught it with surprising finesse and watched.

As he chewed, he asked, "How long d'you think it'll take us to actually get to Blackreach? I'm sure it's much deeper down."

The question made her tilt her head thoughtfully. "…I've no idea. I mean, I've only heard stories about the place, which isn't much to go on."

He hummed in agreement, thinking back to the stories that she was referring to. His father used to spin them tales before the hearth in the evenings, telling them of the heroes of old and their daring adventures. Blackreach had been one of those tales, of course. The place was a legend in its own right, lost to time and turned to myth. The tales of the dwarven market that spanned the underground labyrinth below three cities was an incredulous one, and he wasn't sure how much of it was exaggerated for the purpose of a good bedtime story.

"You grew up on those stories too, then?" he asked as he rolled his own bedroll up. The remnants of warmth made him wish he could return to it – preferably with her – but he knew that they should get a move on. No use lingering in this cold tunnel and wasting time. He didn't much like the thought of spending more time than necessary in this place, for the very air seemed stale and dangerous.

She glanced over at him with a smile. "Oh yes. I wanted to be just like Gormlaith Golden-Hilt when I was a girl."

The words made him smile as he tried to imagine what sort of child Rannve was. Probably impatient. Actually now that he thought about it, he could see her as a bully. It was probably just as well that he hadn't known her back then, because she probably would've teased him to no end. Chuckling at the thought, he asked, "Why Gormlaith?"

She shrugged, standing up and swinging her pack over her shoulders. In a breezy voice, she replied, "She killed four dragons in one day with only a sword. I thought she was the most courageous person to ever walk Tamriel." Then, pausing, she added with a smirk, "Course, her track record could never hold a candle to _mine."_

Rolling his eyes at her arrogant tone, Onmund argued, "You have _not_ killed four dragons in one day. Don't be vain."

She just raised her eyebrows at him. "How do you know that? Are you an expert on all my adventures?"

The question made him pause. He was slightly horrified at the blush that crept over his cheeks – and even more horrified at the way Rannve snorted out a laugh that she was clearly trying to bite down.

With a teasing look in her eye, she drawled, "You _are_ an expert, aren't you? You're obsessed with the Dragonborn stories. Don't deny it!"

He spluttered for a moment before finally exclaiming, "I'm not obsessed! I just find them fascinating – and I'm not an expert in your adventures, I just…" he trailed off, then muttered, "…I just like to keep up with…current events." He grimaced.

She pursed her lips to fend off the shit-eating grin that was currently threatening to take over her features and snickered, "You're a stalker, Onmund."

The word made him glare at her. She honestly didn't think that a person could blush so deeply as he was blushing now.

"I am not a stalker – "

"Oh relax, I'm only teasing," she told him, deciding to take pity on his poor, adorable blushing face. And then, pausing, she backtracked and wondered why his face was suddenly _adorable_. Of all the ways to describe him, that wasn't a word she would have thought to use.

He glowered at her and heaved his pack off the ground with a muttered, "You'll be the death of me…"

She only chuckled and said, "Talos forbid! If anyone will claim your life, it'll be one of the Falmer that we're about to come across."

He did not appreciate her words, but instead of drawing attention to that – something he figured would only amuse Rannve even more – he wondered, "About to? As in…soon?"

The question sounded as childish as it felt, but it couldn't be helped. Onmund was rather hoping that they'd be able to avoid the Falmer in their entirely. The mere thought of those creatures sent shivers through him. Tales of their pale, puckered faces and unseeing eyes made him cringe whenever he'd heard of them. He'd never actually seen one himself, having never had an inclination (or a death wish) to venture down into a Dwemer ruin before. He'd heard plenty about them from the odd adventurer who would come to Winterhold seeking shelter, and several of his professors who had been to various excavations sights and had stories of the once great race of elves.

Rannve sent him a wry look as they loitered for a moment by their camp. She decided not to tell him that the Falmer were the least of their concerns. To be honest, she was far more worried about coming across a Centurion than fighting off a horde of Falmer. Judging by the look in Onmund's eyes though, the thought of the Falmer was more than a little disturbing to him.

She patted herself down, ensuring that her quiver was strapped solidly at her back and that her bow was within drawing distance. "I expect we'll make good time today. The Falmer usually live deeper down, but they often send scouts up to ensure that no one stumbles upon them. We'll probably come across one or two of them."

Onmund pursed his mouth at the thought and sighed, "I guess we can't very well sneak past them, could we?" The question was hopelessly construed, as if he knew that asking it was pointless.

She shrugged. "No offense, Onmund, but you aren't exactly a sneak thief."

He nodded glumly in agreement and she smiled. "We should move as quietly as we can though – which means no talking. The Falmer have keen senses. We don't want them hearing our approach before we notice them."

The warning did little to quell his displeasure, but he only nodded and began following Rannve as she stepped away from their makeshift camp. He glanced over his shoulder one last time at it, knowing that their future camps would not be nearly as protected the further they delved. But, shaking those thoughts away before they could cement in his mind, Onmund hurried to fall into step beside Rannve, doing his best to mirror her silent walk.

In his College robes, his footfalls were fairly silent. He didn't usually favor sneaking over blundering his way through life – which he happened to be fairly good at – but he could manage it when necessary. He had a great many skills that Rannve did not know of, but he intended on proving them all to her by the end of their quest.

What he did not understand was how she managed to stay so quiet. She was wearing steel armor that dripped over her shoulders in plates and scraped against each other whenever she moved. Or should have, at least.

"Are you wearing enchanted armor?" he blurted in a whisper, much to Rannve's surprise, for she had previously told him not to talk unless it was necessary.

She turned to him, pausing in the center of the hallway to gape at his odd, seemingly random question, and hissed, "I told you not – "

"I know, I know, I'm just curious," he cut in with a shrug. It was true. He was curious about everything when it came to her, regardless of the subject or the timing.

She rolled her eyes swiftly and murmured, "Yes. Fortify sneak. Now would you stop asking me questions all the time?" She muttered something about aggravating students and plunged forward.

Onmund chuckled and followed. It was a little amusing, he thought. Rannve seemed to have the typical Nord tendency for distrusting magic. He had seen it clearly back at the College during classes and when they met up to study together and do homework. And yet, she was fairly talented with certain spells. She could cast a decent ward, she knew the basics of destruction, and apparently she wore enchanted armor. For a typically distrustful Nord, Rannve was a bit of an exception.

He rather liked the thought, seeing as he was an exception, too. There weren't very many Nords at the College of Winterhold. They didn't have the same aptitude for magic as some other races did, and on top of that, they were culturally suspicious of anything 'unnatural'. He supposed that Rannve and him did have some similarities after all, and the thought warmed him.

As they journeyed into the depths of the Dwemer city of Alftand, the ice gradually began to disappear. No longer were the walls and floors encased with it. The longer they walked, the more the ruin started looking like an actual _ruin_ , and not some glacial cavern in the middle of nowhere. Not only that, but Onmund began to notice unmistakable signs of life. It was both fascinating as well as disarming, especially because he knew which creatures cohabited the deep bowels of the earth. Despite seeing signs of their presence, though, there was no sight of any Falmer. Onmund was relieved for this, at first, until he figured out the reasons behind their absence.

They were traversing through a dark hall when he heard a strange mechanical sound up ahead. Beyond the hall, he could just make out the sight of a large cavern that opened up. It was flooded with light, no doubt a result of the mysterious dwarven lanterns that flickered from their mounts on the walls. From what Onmund could see, the chamber ahead was awash with the faint blue light. In the thorough darkness they were currently in, it was bright enough to make him squint.

So far, they had only had to deal with a few errant dwarven spiders. Onmund had begun to wonder why Dwemer ruins were widely heralded as extremely dangerous, because to be honest, the two of them had very little trouble getting this far down. While he doubted he could have managed this by himself, Rannve's know-how made the journey feel like a walk in the park. She clearly knew what she was doing – which was why she forcibly grabbed the back of Onmund's robes before he could step inside the bright chamber ahead of them.

"Wha – " he started, only to have Rannve thrust a hand over his mouth with a glare. He raised an eyebrow at her questioningly, but remained silent. There was something in her eyes that prompted him. A certain wariness that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

What was it? More spiders – perhaps a whole horde of them? Or maybe a Falmer, at last? He pulled her hand off of him and turned to peer into the chamber, sweeping his eyes around the stone room for whatever danger lurked there, but found nothing. He frowned and glanced over at Rannve, half temped to ask her why she was unsheathing her sword when there didn't appear to be any enemies for which to use it. He didn't have to, though. Rannve made a shushing gesture with her finger and mouthed, "Lightening," at him as quietly as she could.

He swallowed tightly and nodded, watching as she began creeping silently into the chamber with her sword raised in a defensive stance. He remained where he was. As long as he wasn't too far away, he could utilize several destruction spells to aid her in…whatever it was she needed aid with. He honestly wasn't sure, until of course the strange mechanism in the wall opened up and spat out a hulking bronze frame. After that, he had a pretty good idea into what they were getting into. Any good scholar could identify the Dwemer automatons, and the dwarven sphere that rolled into existence was unmistakable, even though he had never before laid eyes upon a working one.

Rannve had, though. Or at least, it certainly looked like she had. Unlike the manner in which she had fought with the Khajiit the day before, she did not hesitate at all as she side swept the automaton's coming blow and dodged its array of attacks. As for Onmund…well, it wasn't as though he was really hesitating. The thing was fast, and Rannve was spinning around it even faster, and he didn't want to accidentally strike her with a chain lightening spell. That would be a _nightmare_ –

"Onmund, on your left!" Rannve suddenly shouted, her voice loud as it echoed through the chamber. Onmund jumped in surprise, and then jumped again when he realized what she was trying to tell him. There were two automatons – and the other one was heading right for him!

He didn't know where it came from, but he didn't wait around to think too far into its sudden appearance. He barely managed to throw himself out of the way of its sword. Even as he landed in a heap by the wall, he didn't even have time to raise his hands and cast a spell before the thing was on him again, and he narrowly avoided being skewered by its weapon as the mechanical creature thrust it where his head had been seconds earlier.

It was the strangest thing, the way he hurled himself up and rolled his shoulders back, facing the automaton with an expression far more courageous than he truly felt. And yet – something inside of him seemed to shift, then. A certain layer of himself that he had never known existed before this moment seemed to unfurl. Adrenaline mingled with the fear that had coursed through him mere seconds ago, and all but erased it entirely.

He could hear the sound of Rannve's sword against metal and the depth of his own breath as he inhaled sharply. He could see the automaton lifting its weapon again, only a few feet in front of him, and –

He didn't know what force of will came over him, but before he knew what he was doing, Onmund was summoning a lightening bolt that was stronger and fiercer than any other he had ever conjured, and hurled it at the creature's chest with a strength that surprised him. Lightening bolted from his fingertips; a continuous stream of power that coursed into the automaton so thoroughly that, as it fell to the ground in a heap of mismatched parts, he rather thought he smelt smoldering metal. Unlike the last time he had used his magic to take down an enemy, Onmund felt no shred of remorse now. No – this time, he found himself grinning at his handiwork, for he had never cast such a powerful spell before.

"Nice work," Rannve said a moment later, having finished off the other automaton. She kicked the frame to the side as she approached him, sheathing her sword with strangely admiring eyes, as if she appreciated his spell as much as he did. The sight did funny things to him, and he laughed. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, and he found the situation oddly amusing as a result.

A compliment from the Dragonborn was something that would have made him die happy at any normal moment, but for some reason, he could only think about how _Rannve_ had complimented him. His mind did not seem to connect the two together at this point in time, for he did not see her as the Dragonborn now. It was only Rannve, and she was grinning at him with eyes that shone.

"You just said something nice to me," he pointed out a moment later, voice teasing. He couldn't seem to keep his smile from his face as he looked between her and he automaton he had singlehandedly defeated. All by himself! What would his family think of him _now?_ He bet his parents would keel over at the realization that going to the College hadn't been a waste of time. After all, if he hadn't gone to the College, he never would have fallen in with the legendary heroine standing in front of him.

Rannve chuckled at him. "Well, you finally did something right for a change. I give credit where it's due," she shrugged, teasing him right back, and gestured forward. "Let's keep going. I'd say we should start looking for a decent place to bunker down for a few hours. Fighting always makes me hungry."

The nonchalance of her words made _him_ amused. Waving his hand towards the deep dark of Alftand – a place that suddenly didn't seem so very frightening to him – Onmund said, "After you."

She gave him a wry smirk and together they continued forward.

"You know, you're not so bad at this after all," she told him as they headed to the end of the chamber. "We'll see how you fare against a Falmer. They're a bit more intelligent than an automaton."

He just scoffed at her and replied, "Did you _see_ that lightning bolt I cast? Stop being so critical – you were just complimenting me and now you're all but taking it back!"

She chuckled and said, "I'm just saying that you shouldn't get too cocky is all."

It must have been the adrenaline, because Onmund boldly muttered, "That's _your_ job." And, realizing what he had just said, he hastily amended, "I mean – well, actually it is kind of true." He raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

Rannve just rolled her eyes and snorted, "Mages…" and disappeared into the darkness ahead of him.


	22. Aura Whisper

**A/N: In which Rannve uses a Shout, and it ends up giving her something to think about that she hadn't considered previously**

 **Please review if you like the story! Feedback means a lot :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Two | Aura Whisper**

Onmund was just beginning to get the hang of this adventuring business when they came across a room that rather put him back at square one. The sound of mechanical pumping captured his attention before he even stepped into the next chamber. When he saw the pipes that were in full working order, exuding steam and everything, he felt a familiar bolt of inquisitive curiosity – until Rannve nudged him aside so that she could study the sight, too. He didn't have time to muse over these technical apparitions or how they could still be working after all this time. Rannve was far too impatient to let him linger.

"This is…fascinating," he mumbled, eyeing the manner in which the pipes distended outward with an analytical gaze. They pushed right to the edge of the walkway, overhanging it by several inches before darting back and clearing the path once more. Each push and pull were expertly timed, or so it seemed to Onmund, who couldn't help but notice these details. He was used to examining problems and studying them; a trait the College had honed.

Rannve wasn't nearly as impressed. She grumbled, "This is a _trap,"_ and stalked forward. Had he not hurried to follow her, he might have missed the way she took a deep breath and Shouted, **"Laas Yah Nir,"** in a voice that was really more like a scratchy hiss than an actual Shout. It still had Onmund gaping at her though.

She had only used her Voice one other time, and that had been in Saarthal. He hadn't been near her when she'd done it, and hadn't heard the short exclamation before it was all over. Listening to the strange lilt of the words on her tongue made him shiver, but it wasn't from fear.

He had a feeling he was staring at her with his hero-worshipping eyes again, but he really couldn't help himself. The Dragonborn had just used her _Voice_ in front of _him_. As if he didn't have plenty of tales to spin from this quest already, here was another to add to the pile. No one back home would ever believe him! His sister would be so jealous that he'd got to witness this and she hadn't.

Rannve didn't even blink at him. She kept stalking forward, drawing her bow and kneeling down in front of the nearest pump. She was staring hard at something, but Onmund dared not interrupt her focus when it was so absolute. He merely stood back and watched her slip an arrow to her bow and draw it back. The moment all the pipes slid back in tandem, she released the arrow. He heard the sound of it hitting metal, and then the telltale bolt of lightning being released from a dwarven spider.

Gaping, he turned to her and said, "It's pitch black over there! How did you know that thing was even there?"

She straightened out, tucking her bow away and walking over to the first pump to study it as she flippantly said, "I'm the Dragonborn."

Onmund paused at the arrogant smirk in her voice and dryly quipped, "And can you see through the dark now?"

She threw him an amused look over shoulder but didn't respond, instead gesturing for him to come forward. The moment he was close enough to grab, she pushed him against the extended pipe and lowly told him, **"Laas** translates to life. I can see it."

It took him several moments to grapple with her abrupt explanation, for he hadn't expected her to push him against the pipe like this. Neither had he expected that she would step so close to him to do it. In fact, why she felt the need to manhandle him at all was something of a mystery, but he couldn't entirely complain. After all, there probably wasn't very many people who could claim to have been in a similar position with the Dragonborn.

When her words found purchase within his mind, Onmund's eyes flickered with fascination, and he almost forget how close she really was when he looked down at her and asked, "What does it look like?"

Rannve raised an eyebrow at the question, but decided to humor him. Mages had an unquenchable hunger for knowledge, it seemed. They always wanted to know how things worked and why.

She darted her eyes down to his chest, tilting her head curiously as she looked at his own life force. The effects of the Shout she had used still lingered around her vision, giving her the ability to see faint traces of his lifeforce before the Shout began to flicker away, wearing off.

"Blue," she told him, studying the linger signs of life that traveled down his veins and up his neck. It was a strange sight, to be sure. She had never really taken the time to study the effects of this Shout up close before. She'd never really thought to. Shrugging, she added, "Well yours is, anyway. Most people tend to be red. Elves are more greenish gold, but mages – blue."

Onmund stared at her curiously as he considered the words. This was fascinating! He had never thought that auras were such a strong reflection of a person. Not to such an extent, anyway. He opened his mouth to ask her another question but before he could, the pipe slid out from underneath him and he toppled backwards in a heap of robes. Rannve burst into laughter at the sight he made – a reaction he did not appreciate.

He grunted his displeasure and pushed himself up, dusting his robes off with a grimace as the pipe propelled forward again, cutting through the space between them.

Rannve leaned against it with a smirking shrug and drawled, "Like I said: trap." The arrogance in her voice made him huff.

"So I see," he responded dryly, not entirely amused at her rough handling of him or of the situation in general. He crossed his arms and waited for the pipe to push back again so that she could cross.

As they waited, she said, "These ruins are full of them, especially the further down you get. The Dwemer liked making things difficult for their visitors."

Truer words had never been said. Thoughts of the Snow Elves-turned-Falmer flooded through him, and he wrinkled his nose distastefully at the dishonorable tale of the treachery they had experienced at the hands of the dwarven race. He had never liked the story overmuch. It had always left a sour taste in his mouth to think upon such deceit.

When the pipe retracted, Rannve stepped across the space, saying, "We'll have to tread carefully from now on. Such an elaborate trap could only mean – " To their combined shock, her words were cut off as the pipe shot back out before she was fully across.

The side of it grazed her back, lurching her forward slightly. Onmund let out a surprised gasp and grabbed at her before she could fall over the edge, thoughtlessly grasping her waist and pulling her back towards the safety of the walkway as if he thought that she was seconds away from being thrown into the dark chasm below. In truth, she would not have fallen, but neither of them commented on that as he pulled her stoutly back onto the ground.

She stared at him in surprise, feeling the weight of his hands on her sides. His usual reaction to such a scenario would have been to blush vividly and begin spluttering out an embarrassing explanation, but this time he somehow managed to conjure only a soft blush and a sarcastic, "You were saying?"

There was something strange in her eyes as he drawled the words. He could not identify the emotion. He only knew that he had never seen it before. But, mere inches away from her, it was impossible not to notice the way it weaved over her expression, altering the planes of her face with a touch of something gentler. His heart was sent ricocheting through his chest at the sight, for it was something he had only ever imagined to see there.

Rannve's eyes darted down to his chest with a musing expression. At once, the soft light of her eyes dimmed as she smirked widely and murmured, "Your heart is racing, Onmund. I wonder why?"

It was fairly clear from her tone that she wasn't really wondering. She knew exactly why his heart was spluttering in his chest – and with a surprised jolt, he realized that she could still see his lifeforce and had a front row seat to the curdle of his emotions. Talos! He jumped back as if burned. This time, he _did_ blush – quite thoroughly.

It was both mortifying as well as freeing, that Rannve knew of his interest in her. He'd never been very good at hiding his emotions. Oftentimes, people knew what he was feeling before he himself did. His face was an open book; his eyes the words. She had probably known of his romantic interest for months now, maybe even before he had realized that his feelings went deeper than boyish admiration over the legends that dogged her heels. He wasn't good at shutting his emotions off or blocking them from sight. And, even if he was, it wouldn't matter now. Not with her eyes studying the pulse of his lifeforce as it gave it all away: his surprise, his panic, his affection. With the accuracy that could only be conjured through the use of the magical force welling deep within her, Rannve had seen it all.

He was embarrassed about it. She must have seen that, too, because when her eyes flickered up to his, they were not teasing or sarcastic or arrogant. They were merely curious, as if she could not fathom the depth of his emotions or the way they overpowered him. He wasn't sure what was worse: that all she felt was capricious intrigue at his affection for her or that she had an almost pitying look on her face at the knowledge of it.

Did he truly have such a miniscule chance at winning her favor?

The answer came to him only a moment later, when she carefully extricated herself from him and nodded to the next pipe as if the entire situation had never even happened.

"Let's move on. We shouldn't linger," she said. There was a trace of something in her voice – a tiny kernel of emotion that might have raised his hopes, had it not been immediately dampened by the blankness of her expression.

As it was, though, Onmund did not have the luxury of exploring just what emotion colored the low tones of her words at this moment, and indeed, he wouldn't have the chance to do so for quite a while.


	23. Candlelight

**A/N: In which Onmund stands up to Rannve in a manner that she is definitely not expecting.**

 **This is the beginning to the turning point for the romance arc of this story. From here on out, there will be more moments between Onmund and Rannve. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Three | Candlelight**

Rannve had a startlingly thorough way of ignoring the obvious. She had ignored the call of her soul for years prior to discovering who and what she really was. She had ignored the Greybeard's summons for months until she could not delay the journey any longer. She had put off working with Delphine until the very last minute, leaving her hanging time and again while she turned to other pursuits. And – she ignored herself, too, with adamant refusal.

She was the Dragonborn. She did not fall in _love_. Least not with a bumbling mage like Onmund. The mere notion was _ridiculous_.

It was simply the heavy fumes of oil long left rancid in this underground ruin; the deep darkness that was as absolute as anything she had ever witnessed. It was all going to her head and making her think thoughts that she really oughtn't have, and desire things that she had never before wanted.

Romance? Talos forbid. The moment she felt the spin of her heart moving to match another's, her freedom would be no longer be hers. She would sooner hunt Alduin until her dying breath than ever fall in love. And – therein lay another problem that was far bigger than her. How could she possibly think about anything so silly and girlish when there was a World-Eating dragon to deal with? Chances were that she probably _would_ be hunting Alduin till her last breath, for they were numbered.

She stalked forward through the darkness feeling a little annoyed at the idea of feeling even the slightest shred of interest toward the mage at her side. Of course she knew that Onmund _liked_ her (Talos, that sounded insipidly immature) but somehow it was different, seeing his emotions as if they were living, breathing wisps of energy. It made it seem more…real.

She couldn't deny that it had fascinated her, to some extent. Besides the fact that she had never considered using that Shout to see one's emotional aura before, his reactions to her had been striking. Her touch had made his energy skyrocket, pulsing with an exquisite array of fervor. Even the way her eyes locked with his had sent a sizzle of energy through him. She hadn't even realized how responsive he was to her, before. It was intriguing, mainly because she could not say that she knew of anyone else who reacted similarly to her presence.

And yet…

There was something curdling inside of her that she adamantly ignored, or at least tried to. A certain brand of dread that made her walk a little faster and feel a little angrier. Because even though she was fiercely ignoring the emotion, she knew exactly what it was: fear.

The Dragonborn, hero of Skyrim, defeater (she hoped) of Alduin – afraid of love! It was almost poetic. She could dive head first into the very depths of the earth in her quest to hunt down the mightiest dragon that had ever graced the skies, and yet she was afraid of something as trite as emotional companionship! She wanted to hit herself for even having the thought!

And then there was Onmund, who had remained uncharacteristically silent since their trip through the pipe chamber several hours before, as if he would prefer sinking into the floor over speaking to her. Normally she might have broken the silence, if only to erase the tense inflexibility that had taken a hold of the space between them, but she dared not to. Her excuse was that she wanted to bask in the annoyance she felt at feeling the burn of attraction towards him, but she knew that the real reason was because she just didn't know what to say.

What sort of conversation did one have, after one discovers the full depth of feeling in another? What words would shrink down the awkward tension that this realization had brought, without disregarding him so thoroughly that she ended up hurting him? Rannve wasn't particularly talented when it came to comforting someone. At least not with words. She left those silly intricacies to the Bards in Solitude, and much preferred to use her Voice for stronger things.

It was just that she didn't _want_ to hurt him. She didn't even know _what_ she wanted when it came to Onmund. He had been a bump on her path at first – an inconvenience at best, a distraction at worst. She'd fully planned on blazing right past him once she had gotten what she needed at the College. Only, life didn't exactly go as planned, and it had a terrible tendency of screwing her over.

Perhaps, at least until she had time to delve further into the inner workings of her heart – a place she did not usually linger – it would be best to continue ignoring the horker in the room. Onmund probably didn't want to talk about it anyway. He hadn't said so much as a word since they'd left the pipe chamber, after all. He seemed perfectly content to walk behind her with his head bowed and his expression –

"You look a little angry," Rannve said as she glanced back at him. She rather expected that he would appear far more sorrowful and far less furious. She didn't often realize the extent of her own arrogance, but perhaps it had gotten the better of her this time because she was truly surprised.

Onmund raised his eyebrows at her and humorlessly said, "I _am_ angry."

She slowed, more than a little confused at his unexpected reaction, and asked, "Well…why?"

He rolled his eyes at her and scoffed, "If you don't already know, then why should I bother explaining it to you? I swear you're thicker than a frost troll."

Rannve's brows shot up. She crossed her arms and turned to face him fully, studying his face as closely as she could in the flickering blue light of an errant dwarven candle. She could just barely see the blaze of his eyes burning into hers, and it made her heart leap into her throat to reasons that, once again, she ignored. (It was just – he looked rather spectacular, in a very strange, mage-like way, when his anger was so apparent. Far less the bumbling apprentice and more a practiced battlemage.)

"Don't be a blathering maiden, Onmund," Rannve said with a snort. "Just tell me what's wrong already."

In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best thing to say. Onmund glowered fiercely at her, drawing himself up to his full height and rolling his shoulders back. He looked oddly impressive in a way Rannve had never noticed before – regal, somehow, when he tilted his chin up and looked down at her. Their usual warmth seemed to have transferred into something more similar to perturbance, but it didn't take anything away from the commanding way he was holding himself.

"You seem to enjoy calling me things like that," he suddenly said, catching her eye with a glower.

The words caught her off guard, simply because she wasn't entirely sure what his meaning was, and she frowned, "Calling you what? What are you even on about?"

Her confusion seemed to amuse him. It was a dynamic that pushed her off balance, for it usually played out the other way around.

Crossing his arms, he stepped forward and murmured, "That's at least the second time you've called me a maiden."

Utterly baffled, Rannve stepped back and said, "I was only – "

"I might not have the same experience that you have when it comes to adventures and such, but I am not a maiden," he interrupted, taking another step forward and following her back. She felt her back hit the wall behind her, and was rather mortified at the thought of him succeeding in caging her in like this. So much for the heroic Dragonborn! She felt like a girl!

It was terrible. And – confusing.

She'd never seen this side of him before. She wasn't sure if she was more surprised that it even existed at all, or that he was using it on her. Usually he was far more mild-mannered than this. She supposed that when he got angry, he got _angry_. There didn't seem to be a middle ground. She still wasn't sure what had summoned this within him though. Surely calling him a maiden wasn't the reason! He'd been annoyed before that, and besides, she was only teasing! She didn't actually see him in such a girlish, innocent light.

"I did not mean to upset you – " she began, frowning up at him sullenly.

He frowned right back and said, "I understand that you don't feel the same way, Rannve, but you don't have to ignore me. This doesn't have to be awkward. I like you, I always have, and I probably always will – _any_ Nord would fall head over heels for you – but I'm not going to try wooing you every other minute. You can stop running away from me."

His speech was more than a little shocking. It stole her very breath away from her. She was stunned silent, for several reasons. The first was the she hadn't expected him to come out and _say_ it like that, in such a bold way. The second was that he had done so in such an unapologetic manner, and had called her out so thoroughly and with such ease. She stared up at him in astonishment, waiting for his face to explode into a blush from his sudden monologue but – it didn't. He merely looked resigned as he peered down at her, as if he doubted his words had hit home in the way he wished for them to.

He was wrong, for despite being stunned for those reasons, they weren't what had stolen her breath away. The reason _that_ had happened was because she…rather liked it. Hearing him say he liked her. Hearing him tell her to stop running. To stop ignoring. To stand her ground just as solidly as he would stand his.

It inspired her as much as it frightened her, because it made her heart spiral out of her control in ways that she had been adamantly trying to restrict.

"…I wasn't running away from you," she muttered, looking away from those eyes lest she get swept up in their comforting embrace.

Onmund just snorted. "I had to jog just to keep up with you," he told her dryly and she felt her face heat up a little. Onmund saw it, too. Raising an eyebrow, he leaned closer and asked, "Are you blushing? I've never seen you blush before."

Horrified, she pressed a hand to her face as if to check her temperature, and as smoothly as she could, said, "Talos no. I don't think so."

Onmund bit back a grin and teased, "You _are_ blushing, aren't you? I guess my confession did affect you after all."

She rolled her eyes at him and pushed off from the wall, ducking back into the cool shadows of the hallway in her pursuit to hide her face from him. How dare he tease her! She was the only one who was allowed to joke around like that. It suddenly felt as if the tables of their relationship had turned in the opposite direction and it was unnerving.

Onmund chuckled, and the sound sent shivers down her spine and made her heart thump in betrayal. She glowered back at him and muttered, "Of course your confession affected me. I _do have_ emotions, Onmund."

And though she didn't see it, Onmund smiled through the darkness at her form. He hadn't lied, when he told her that he wouldn't try to woo her or win her favor. He didn't really think that there was much of anything that he could offer her, and he wasn't silly enough to assume that there weren't other men out there who would perhaps be better suited to court a woman like the Dragonborn. He would not push her for anything she did not readily offer. It was not his way.

Perhaps if he had known just how much his confession _had_ affected Rannve, though, he might not have been so resigned towards his seemingly unrequited affections. Well, as they say, nothing worthwhile is ever easy – not even love.


	24. Call to Arms

**A/N: In which Rannve and Onmund fall - both literally and figuratively - and they make their way even deeper into the ruins.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Four | Call to Arms**

Later that day, after they had settled down for a quick dinner before carrying on for a few more hours, they stumbled across a hulking bronze door. Rannve had been in enough Dwemer ruins to realize that it was a halfway point, of sorts, between the upper levels of Alftand and the lower bowels that would take them to the deepest points of the earth.

As they approached the enormous door, Onmund let out an amazed breath, peering up at the sheer size of it. It appeared to be made entirely of bronze, and probably weighed a ton. Once again, the incredible aptitude of the long vanished Dwemer shocked him. How they had managed to create such a thing and put it into place in the threshold of this huge doorway, he did not know.

"Where does it lead?" he wondered almost idly, hands on his hips as he admired the way the bronze gleamed dully in the dim light.

Rannve paused at the question, shooting him a quick glance as she passed him, and responded, "Only one way to find out."

Since his abrupt confession earlier, she hadn't really known how to act around him. It felt as though all of the sudden, the rug had been pulled out from under her. The solid footing she'd had previously now seemed diminished, as though she were floating into the unknown. She had absolutely no idea how to navigate this strange conundrum that now festered between them. It was much easier when she could just ignore it outright and pretend that Onmund's feelings for her weren't quite as overwhelming.

Indeed, that was a good word to describe it. She felt very much overwhelmed, but it wasn't just because his admission of his feelings for her had taken her so off guard. The main reason was because she was so surprised to find that the allure she had felt towards him before, however small, seemed to have grown exponentially in just a few short hours.

She knew that it was partially because it had just surprised her so much, but…well, another part of her wondered if it was also due to the fact that she could not ignore her own heart as rebelliously as she had before. Onmund hadn't just forced her to acknowledge _his_ feelings; he had brought her own inclinations to the forefront of her mind with almost as much poignancy, and it was nearly impossible to stop thinking about it.

If he was at all aware of her internal struggle, though, Onmund did not show it. His manner towards her had returned to his usual friendly impartiality. He had been right to say that he wouldn't try to woo her, because he was making no effort to do so at all. She was slightly (just a tiny bit, mind you) disappointed.

As he went over to help her push the heavy door open, his eyes barely touched upon hers. His contented expression was just that: contented. He seemed to have successfully pushed back his admiration of her to some far corner of his mind where it would not inconveniently show itself, and he seemed all the happier for it. If only Rannve could claim the same.

She was rather confused with herself, to be honest. Did she actually want him to woo her after all? By all accounts, she should have been pleased that he was making such a commendable effort to put aside his emotions so as to make their journey easier and less distracting. She certainly shouldn't be _vexed_ at his discipline. It made little sense to her, which only unnerved her even more.

She was still struggling to understand herself as they stepped through the door and into the next chamber, and was so distracted that she almost didn't notice the pressure plate that Onmund was seconds away from unknowingly stepping on.

"Wait – " she cried out, grabbing his arm and lurching him away from it before he could set off a trap that she'd rather avoid. The momentum of her pull was unexpectedly stronger than she had planned and sent them both reeling backwards gracelessly. Somehow in the midst of their stumble, she ended up catching herself on the hem of Onmund's robes. The accidental movement sent them toppling onto the floor.

When she opened her eyes, she was inches away from him.

He was sprawled out beneath her, looking as taken aback as she did. With a start, Rannve realized that they were in utter disarray – tangled up in each other in ways that she had never expected to be. She was laying atop his chest as if she had planned it all the while, leg hooked around his waist and elbows propped on either side of his head.

Their eyes clashed, and Onmund stared up at her with that _emotion_ – the one that turned her heart into a tattered mess of confusion. She pushed herself onto her hands, still hovering over him, and haltingly explained, "…Pressure plate…"

Talos, but she sounded quite winded and far more breathless than she should have liked. Onmund seemed to like it though, for his eyes flashed at her and his mouth quirked up. He was staring at her with eyes that suddenly spoke volumes. It was as if the last few hours of his strictly friendly exchanges were erased from his memory entirely.

"I guess I should look where I'm going next time," he said. His voice sounded strange. She had never before heard it set in such low tones before, and it reminded her of provocations and cravings.

She swallowed tightly and agreed, "Yes. You should."

Then, realizing at last that she was still sprawled out on top of him and really didn't _need_ to be, Rannve rolled over and pushed herself up, frowning a bit at the strange mixture of emotions that stirred in her chest. Onmund did the same, peering over at her with a curious expression on his face, as though she was a mystery that made a little more sense to him than it had before. She didn't really like the peculiar gleam of understanding the touched his gaze, so she scrambled up quickly and reached down to offer him a hand.

"If you _had_ stepped on that plate, you would have set off a spinning blade that would have sliced you before you could get off the stairway," she said, keen on breaking the silence between them and even more interested in ignoring the way he was looking at her, with that combination of knowledge and muted surprise.

It seemed to work, at least enough to draw his attention back to the stairs and away from her face. He raised his eyebrows at said, "Huh. And should I ask how you know that?"

Rannve gave him a pursed expression. "I've been in my fair share of these ruins, and not always with lucky companions."

His eyes widened at the statement. Endlessly curious, he couldn't help but wonder, "And…how many companions have met their end when adventuring with you?"

It was a legitimate question, really, and not anything that he didn't deserve to know. He was currently one of those companions, after all. He had the right to know just how dangerous her adventures were. He only wished he had thought to ask before – though he had a feeling it wouldn't have really changed anything.

Rannve sighed. "Only one. My usual accomplices are a bit more thoughtless than you, though." She paused and drawled, "Come to think of it, you're the first of your kind."

Onmund raised his eyebrows, unsure if this was a good thing or not. As they carefully headed up the stairs, he dryly asked, "In what way?"

She speared him an amused smirk that he was frankly happy to see (her silences were unnerving, and he'd been privy to far more of those today than he wanted), and airily responded, "You're far from the reckless treasure hunter that usually wants to fight by my side. It's actually quite refreshing."

She sidestepped a pressure plate, pointing it out to Onmund so that he avoided it too, and said, "You wouldn't believe how many people travel with me just for the sheer glory of getting to say that they've fought with the Dragonborn. Or because they want something from me – gold, connections, fame. It's a bit tiresome, really."

She shrugged, leading Onmund to the top of the stairs and looking around. There were several signs of Falmer inhabitation, which she took note of. As a result, she didn't notice the way Onmund was staring her, as if he almost felt sorry for her plight.

"…I suppose it must be hard, having people use you as they do. I hadn't really considered that," he said after a moment, and she turned to glance over her shoulder at him.

With a shrug, she waved his words away with a smirking, "Ah, well it's not so bad. It's a two way road. I have quite a few friends in high positions that make my life much easier, too."

Her nonchalant admission that she also used people in such a way made him roll his eyes. Once again, the arrogant nature of her personality came crashing back. He was both relieved and exasperated at its return.

"Glad to hear it," he responded dryly, wondering just who these 'friends' of hers were. Thanes, perhaps? Jarls? He wouldn't be surprised. She had ascended to Thaneship in many of the holds across Skyrim, so she probably knew quite a lot of people in the various courts.

She gave him a wry smile as if she knew where his thoughts had gone off to, but didn't make any further comment. In truth, she didn't care overmuch about being used by those around her, because it was true that she also used them just as much. One didn't become Thane of nearly all the holds across Skyrim without utilizing the full potential of the noble class system, and she wasn't afraid to manipulate those very same nobles. It was just what the higher-borns did, and though she technically hadn't been born to wealth, her circumstances had changed quite rapidly once her fate had been cast out for her to claim.

"We're entering Falmer territory," she told him a moment later, turning back to the path ahead with far more wariness in her tone than it had carried only a moment ago. "Be as silent as possible. Falmer are blind, but their hearing is superb."

The warning made him nod, though she did not see. She was already stepping forward, moving quietly down the hall, and he had no choice but to follow. They walked a ways until they reached a large room that seemed to spring up as if from nowhere, with a high ceiling that seemed to stretch for miles above them. It was difficult to know in the darkness, but the wide open space sent shivers down Onmund's back. That, and the fact that the pathway suddenly began to cut across the space in a downward spiral, put him on guard.

They were, quite literally, out in the open. If there were any Falmer in this large cavernous room, they would only have to look up to catch sight of them. But thankfully, they did not seem to be in this area at all, for they came across no sign of Falmer or automaton as they descended down the spiral pathway.

He stayed close behind her, not very keen on tumbling over the edge of the path. He couldn't say how far down it went, but he knew that were he to fall, no amount of Restoration spells could save him. It was an unnerving thought, and he let out a sigh of relief when they at last reached a landing that had columns and stone railings on all sides.

There was something quite intimidating to this enormous room. It seemed as though they were in the very depths of Tamriel, far removed from anything he had ever known. No ray of light could ever hope to reach this far into the earth. For some reason, the knowledge of this seemed to slam into him in a far more imposing manner than it had at any moment prior.

The next roadblock of their path came up rather suddenly. The path that they had taken to reach the landing they were now on cut off abruptly. He saw the signs of fallen stone and jagged edges veering of the side of the landing, and when he peered over the edge of the rock, he saw that the remainder of the path was little more than a heap of stone, fallen to the wayside beneath them.

Rannve crouched down at the edge, joining him as they considered into their next action. They couldn't very well go back the way they'd come. This seemed to be the only way to continue on. There were no other passages. And, if that wasn't bad enough, the dim light of the flickering dwarven candles revealed what appeared to be a body below them – some remnant of a previous adventurer who had met their untimely demise at this very spot.

The warning of the body below them was fairly clear: it was too far a distance to jump, and they could very well end up falling right over the edge of the landing beneath them if their momentum carried them too far. Onmund glanced over at Rannve with a pursed mouth and sighed, "I don't suppose we brought a rope?"

The grimace she bestowed him with was his answer.

"We'll have to risk jumping," she said. "There's nothing else for it. I can't turn back now."

He was very cognizant of the way she had said 'I', purposefully not including him. He chose to ignore the look she sent his way. It was half imploring, half resigned, as if she knew that her words would not send him away. She was right. At this point, he fully intended on continuing on this path till the very end – to whatever end it was.

A part of her was hoping that he might take her up on the silent offer and leave her to her fate. She couldn't go back to the surface. Her journey to defeat Alduin had taken her here, and she had no choice but to continue it. It was either this, or go back empty handed, without the information she needed on the Elder Scrolls she so desperately sought. It was the only way that she knew of to defeat Alduin.

Instead of turning away, though, Onmund rubbed a hand over his jaw and thoughtfully mused, "I could cast a spell to lighten my weight. If I cast it on myself and jumped, I should be okay." He looked at her and frowned, adding, "Unfortunately, I'm not very good at casting spells on other people."

Rannve raised an eyebrow and quipped, "You'll have to catch me as dashingly as you can, then."

He snorted at that and responded, "I'll do my best. Not that there's anyone here to witness your clumsiness."

She nudged him with a chuckle and nodded at him, "Alright, we'll try it. It beats jumping blind, in any case."

With their plan ironed out as best as could be, they stood up and Onmund focused his magic into the spell. Alteration happened to be his specialty, and he had little trouble summoning the incantation that would do the trick. The trickle of magic swept over him, making him glow briefly as the enchantment absorbed into his skin. At once he felt lighter, as if he had been walking around in a clunky suit of armor before and was now free of it. He turned to glance at Rannve, who nodded to him, and then faced the ledge.

It probably helped that he couldn't see anything very clearly. The outline of the landing below him was clear enough to make out, but the darkness invaded his vision to such a degree that in a way, he was relieved. He wondered if he would have been nearly as brave if the room was lit up, because when he jumped down, he did so without hesitation.

It was a moment he would remember for years to come. Well – sort of. The moment that would stand out in his memory was actually the one that came next.

Onmund did not see himself as a dashing sort of man. He knew fair well that he tended to stumble his way through his life. It had always been a characteristic that he hadn't much liked about himself, but it was such an ingrained part of who he was that there was little to be done about it. This time, though, he rather thought he did a fairly good job at the dashing part.

He landed with an ease that could only be attributed to the spell he had cast upon himself. There was no pain at all when he touched the ground, though without the spell he surely could have crumbled in a useless heap like the other poor sod laying on the ground beside him. He stumbled a bit, catching his momentum before it could bring about his end. Then he gave the body of the wretch beside him a pitying glance, wrinkling his nose at the stench of it (it had been down here one too many weeks), and turned back around to face Rannve. She was waiting, and jumped down before he was fully prepared for it.

Impatient as always, he thought as he cried out in panic and opened his arms to catch her. She hit him right in the chest and they fell over in a tangled heap of limbs for the second time that day. This time, he found himself complaining just a bit more than he had before.

"Ow! That hurt!" he exclaimed, then promptly shut his mouth because the sound of his voice carried quite loudly in this cavernous room, and the thought of capturing the attention of any wayward Falmer or dwarven contraption was not a pleasant one. Rannve, whose fall had landed her far more comfortably than it otherwise would have, scoffed against him and reached up to rub her nose, which had been shoved against his chest from the impact of her jump.

She rolled off of him and muttered, "Let's never do that again."

He wholeheartedly agreed. Not that he had much of a problem with having her in his arms, but he would prefer better circumstances.

They sat up, each sporting cringes as they rubbed sore spots and straightened out their limbs. Then, looking over at each other, they both chuckled at the same time, apparently equally as amused at their latest endeavor.

"I hope you weren't planning on returning to the surface this way, because that spell won't get us back up," he told her as they stood.

She dusted herself off and responded, "There's usually another exit to these places that takes us right up to the surface."

The information made him turn to gape at her, and she raised her eyebrow at him.

"Another exit?!" he questioned, looking ruffled at this. "Why didn't we just take that? We could've avoided all of this!"

Rannve snickered.

"Yes, except that I have no idea where the exit is. It would take months of searching every inch of the mountain to find it. And besides," she shrugged, sending him a wide smirk that made his heart rattle in his chest, "it's more fun this way."

His mouth dropped open even more.

"More fun? Are you _crazy?"_ he asked, and began to wonder if she wasn't the most aggravating person on the continent.

Rannve, for her part, just appeared amused at the question.

"Oh Onmund," she replied, patting his shoulder as she turned to face the darkness before them. With another chuckle, she murmured, "You haven't seen _anything_ yet."

He…wasn't really sure what to say to that, so he just sighed.


	25. Bound Bow

**A/N: In which Onmund and Rannve have their first real battle, and their first casualty**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Five | Bound Bow**

The downward trek of the spiraling stone path took them ever deeper into the bowels of the earth, which meant several things. The first was that the air became oppressing close, as if it meant to suffocate them before they ever reached their destination – some wayward trick of the fates, perhaps, as if they meant to spite them just for their blind audacity. The second, though, was what really mattered, for it meant a much faster death should they fall prey to it. It seemed that they had finally stumbled upon the Falmer's stronghold, for before they had descended very far, they met their first one.

Rannve had counted them very lucky to not have seen any prior to this moment. They usually had an awful tendency to roam the upper halls of these ruins, sending their scouts further up to ensure that all was secure. That this was to be their first encounter was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because they had successfully evaded them for so long; a curse, because their luck seemed to have inevitably failed them now, and put them in the path of quite a few of them at once.

This seemed to be their main encampment. The closer they got to the bottom of the enormous hall, the easier it was to see the ground, and Rannve did not much like the sight that greeted her. She counted at least half a dozen lingering there, and perhaps several more in the decrepit huts that they made out of the hides of their dead chaurus. On top of that, she heard the telltale sound of spiders. It was a sound that made shivers run through her. She'd always hated spiders.

Her and Onmund paused about a hundred feet above them, studying the layout of the group over the edge of the stone path. She knew better than to rush into a nest of Falmer without a proper plan. These were not dwarven automatons with pre-calculated attack patterns hardwired into their systems. They were living, breathing, _thinking_ creatures who happened to be very adept when it came to fighting, for they were an instinctual race who were fierce and deadly in battle.

As they lingered there, Rannve pulled her bow out and strung it, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully as she considered the best course of action. There were simply too many of them in such an enclosed space to ever hope to sneak past them all. Even without Onmund, she doubted she'd be able to do it. Better to take a few out with her bow and shrink their numbers as much as possible before they realized where they were and started up the path. There was hardly any room on this stone ledge, and if they were forced to retreat, they would be led into a difficult situation, considering that the broken path above them wouldn't allow them to find a more strategic outpost.

"I can put up a ward," Onmund breathed to her. His voice was surprisingly strong, holding no trace of the shaky unease that she would have expected from him. Not that she thought he was a coward, of course, but it _was_ his first run-in with Falmer and she knew how much he'd been dreading it.

She glanced over at him. He was closer than she'd expected, too, huddling beside her on the ledge as he peered down at the encampment below. She found herself studying the fearless quality of his expression in blatant bewilderment. There was a hard sheen to his eyes that she couldn't claim to have ever seen before.

Where was the bumbling mage apprentice who had quailed at the thought of facing a Falmer? Now, they were to face the lot of them in one fell blow, and he seemed to have managed to either successfully push his fear away or hide it altogether, for there was not a trace of it lingering on the planes of his face. But then she noticed the way he was clenching his hands as if to keep tremors at bay, and the hard grit of his jaw, and the stiffness of his shoulders, and she realized that it was most likely the latter.

Thoughtlessly, she nudged him with her elbow and sent him an arrogant smile – one that was purposefully brazen and cavalier. Her voice was just haughty enough to make him want to roll his eyes at her when she whispered, "Never fear, Onmund. You'll be safe in my capable hands."

In truth, she did not say the words without reason, nor did she imbue her voice with pretentious vanity without intention. She had seen him fight when he allowed his instincts to guide him. She might have been joking, a little, when she had told him that he'd become a master battlemage by the time they reached the surface once more, but he'd already proven that he did indeed have the potential for such a path. The trick, she knew, was to get him to stop overthinking. It was a trick that every untried fighter had to learn, whether mage or swordsman. She had learned it, too, and he was currently on the brink of it himself.

And so, though her words seemed to lack a specific purpose beyond teasing him, there was in fact a reason for her uttering them. She wanted to aggravate him just enough to spark that determination she knew was lurking behind the currently wry gaze he was now sending her.

"You're treating me like a maiden again," he muttered to her, slightly annoyed at her penchant for doing so. Rannve just hummed in agreement and eyed him.

"They are weak to fire," she whispered to him. "But their main weakness is that they are blind. If you run low on magicka, find a place to rest your reserves and don't move."

He nodded and turned to catch her eye. In a low voice, he breathed, "Erm…good luck, I guess?"

If she wasn't trying to be quiet, she might've laughed aloud at that. Onmund was so endearingly awkward. She settled for snickering below her breath and responding, "Indeed."

He would have flushed at the teasing way she said it, if Rannve wasn't drawing an arrow from her quiver and notching it to her bowstring. He watched as she drew it back, rolling his shoulders back and preparing his magicka. It would only be a few moments until the entire place was in an uproar, and he didn't want to act the blundering fool now. He'd gotten this far only because of Rannve's assistance, but Talos guide him, he meant to hold his own in this fight, hopefully with a finesse that had not been present in the last ones.

To be perfectly honest, Onmund had never given much thought to fighting styles. The reason for this was because he wasn't a _fighter_ , and therefore there was little purpose in pondering such a topic. That, and considering that he was a mage apprentice and not a warrior, this sort of strategy went well over his head. He simply did not have the tactical experience for it, and he had never found himself lacking in that regard. After all, the College was no place for battles where one's life was on the line.

Not so, in the depths of Alftand.

Rannve clearly knew what she was doing, and as far as he could tell, she wasn't doing it thoughtlessly. As she pulled the arrow back and aimed it over the side of the ledge, it took her only a moment or two to expertly find the target she was hunting for. She released the arrow and had strung another one before it even met its mark, effectively skewering a Falmer in the throat within seconds. The creature dropped dead, but it did not go unnoticed – a fact that she had clearly taken into account, because she was already aiming for the stairway despite it currently being empty of any errant Falmer.

They practically walked right into aim. She took out three of them as they clamored up the stairs, somehow knowing even despite their blindness that their enemies were perched somewhere above. Rannve was right about one thing, at least, and that was that Falmer had superior hearing. How else would they be able to detect them based only on the trajectory of an arrow?

Adrenaline spiked through him as he watched their approach. He ducked behind Rannve, knowing that he would be of more use at a further distance. His magic sizzled in his palms; errant wisps of it conjured merely from the pure energy radiating from him. It was unfocused for now, not directed into any specific spell, and so it merely sparked from his fingertips in an almost absentminded way. Despite the somewhat lazy appearance of it, though, Onmund himself could not claim to have the same disposition at this moment. It wasn't every day that angry Falmer were storming toward you, gargling out frankly terrifying sounds that seemed to come straight out of a nightmare. At least, it wasn't an everyday occurrence for _him_.

Rannve was another story entirely.

She threw her bow into place against the trappings at her back and pulled out her swords, barely hesitating as she stalked several feet to meet them head-on. The downward momentum of the spiraling path sent her flying at them at a pace that was faster than it normally would have been on solid ground – a fact that she also seemed to use to her advantage as she hurled the edge of her blade into an unprotected chest.

Onmund raised his hands, casting a shield around her. It was done just in time to save her from a crashing frost spell that came hurtling at her from a Falmer spell caster, protecting her from the brunt of the damage. He silently thanked the Divines for the fortitude it cost him to successfully cast any spell at all. Despite his attempt at bravery, his fingers were shaking. Fortunately, the adrenaline coursing through him assisted him in churning his fear to better uses.

Spell after spell was shot forward in a barrage of magic-fire that he would have been quite proud of, if he'd had a moment to feel anything but determination. Determination to ensure that they both survive; that Rannve didn't get injured or worse; that she wouldn't be forced to leave him down here in the dark depths of Alfthand for the unforeseeable future – for however long he lasted by himself in a den of furious Falmer.

As for Rannve, he would have been mesmerized at her quick movements, too – the way her sword sliced through all oncoming attacks, the clash of steel and the almost brutal way she lifted her boot to kick one of the creatures right off the edge of the path to the depths below – surely, it would have enchanted him far more thoroughly than any spell, had he been afforded the chance to really watch the turn of events with any emotion besides the simmer of excitement and fright bred from adrenaline.

As it as, he could barely pay attention to his own actions. He was entirely focused on making sure that his spells did not accidentally veer too far to one side and hit Rannve instead of a Falmer. Besides that, he needed to be conscious at all times of his stores of magicka lest he overwork himself. He'd been chided far too many times by Tolfdir to forget the potentially deadly outcome that would come about were he to drain his reserves completely.

The battle appeared to be turning in their favor as Rannve sliced through the last Falmer on the path, pushing it into a spider and knocking them both over the ledge with a (spectacular) flourish of her sword. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with much needed air and staring at Rannve with eyes that probably verged on hero-worship. She turned to throw him a smirking grin over her shoulder, an expression that he was quite sure only she could pull off to such an effect. Her eyes gleamed with none of the fear that he had battled with himself, before he had gotten into the ebb of the battle. She looked entirely enthusiastic from the thrill of the fight. Her eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed just so, and – he doubted he had ever seen her so beautiful. Until, of course, a sneaking Falmer that had crept up the path without their knowing swiftly came up behind her and raised its dagger.

He saw it first and exclaimed, "Rannve – !" but it was one second too late, for she barely had time to raise her sword and block the oncoming blade with a sloppy twist of her wrist that was borne entirely out of her own surprise.

It was almost funny, how the tides of fate never seemed to want to stick to one course. Funny how, for such revolting creatures, the Falmer were apparently a lot smarter than they had any right to be.

The creature parried Rannve's sloppy blow easily, and before she could lift her other blade to fend it off, the Falmer's knife was slicing right through the slits of steel wrapped around her body, finding purchase in the spot where her pauldron connected to the back of her armor. And if the gargling sound of the Falmer hadn't been bad enough, it was really no comparison to the pained exclamation that left Rannve's throat. Nor, indeed, to the sight of the Falmer taking advantage of her momentary weakness to shove her down the stone path without mercy.

"Rannve!" he cried out, reaching out a hand for her even though he knew it was useless. She was already too far out of his range to reach her in time, and the momentum of the downward path pressed her down far too quickly for him to do anything to save her. As it was, he barely even had time to throw a ward up as the Falmer flung itself forward, directing its attention to him.


	26. Transmute

**A/N: In which Onmund gets them out of their difficult situation in a manner that Rannve is rather impressed with.**

 **Sorry for the cliffhanger last chapter lol! Here is the next installment. I'm hoping to get chapter twenty seven finished tomorrow night, so fingers crossed for a faster update!**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Six | Transmute**

As the Falmer threw itself forward towards Onmund, something overcame him – a strange, inexplicable twist of power that surged through him. He could not say where it came from, if it was the result of Rannve's sudden fall or the desperation he felt at not knowing what had become of her, but the spell that Onmund threw at the Falmer was far more potent than any he had ever summoned, for it blasted the thing right into the air and flung it into a stone pillar some meters away. The pure energy of the blast shook him. It seemed to come from nowhere at all and from everywhere at once. He felt the effects of it right down to his bones, as if the magic lingered there against his skeleton and pressed itself outward. The result, when it was conjured, was both exhausting and exhilarating.

He knew instinctively that the Falmer was dead from the way it crashed its head against the stone and crumpled down, but he didn't stop to watch as it began to fall off the path like many of its unlucky brethren who had met their end at the tip of Rannve's sword. Indeed, the mere thought of her sent him rushing down the stone path, almost tripping in his anxious need to see what had become of her.

It was his worst fear come to life. That she might die, and leave him here in this underground hell where he would surely wander until his last breath, unable to find his way back to the surface. What a dismal end! The mere conception of it set his feet faster, as if he was running from the terror of sheer potential.

Hurtling down the steps at the bottom nearly made him stumble, but it wasn't until he located Rannve's form that he actually did.

She was pushing herself up, grimacing as she kept her weight on one arm. Somehow she had managed to save herself from the fate that had befallen the Falmer who had fallen from the ledge. He supposed he should be thankful that she had only staggered down the path, and most likely tumbled off of it when she was a closer distance to the ground. Small favors, he thought as he knelt down beside her and helped her sit up the rest of the way.

She let out a pained groan and muttered, "Talos, that was – "

"Hush," he interrupted, and yes, he was quite aware that he sounded like a fretting mother hen but by the Nine, he really thought for a moment that she was dead! His fingers flitted over the armor at her shoulder, unbuckling what parts of it he could see in his quest to heal her wound. He still had enough magicka reserves to do a half decent job, so long as he could summon a healing spell. To be honest, Restoration wasn't exactly his specialty. He blamed it on Colette's erratic teaching manner, because she was very difficult to keep up with most of the time. She tended to go off on tangents that had absolutely nothing to do with Restoration or magic at all.

Rannve looked up at him, raised an eyebrow, and drawled, "Stop worrying so much. I'm perfectly fine."

He gaped at her. She was not perfectly fine! He could see the blood dripping through the slit of her armor. It was smeared all over the floor where she'd just been laying!

When he opened his mouth to chide her, Rannve just huffed and arrogantly said, "I'm the _Dragonborn_ , Onmund. I think I can handle a little nick."

He let out an exasperated laugh and said, utterly aghast, "A _little nick?_ Do you _see_ how much you're bleeding?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "The tumble down the path hurt more than that Falmer's puny little dagger."

His mouth dropped open. Puny dagger?! He had seen that dagger, thank you very much, and it was not _puny_.

"Just let me heal it," he said, irritated that she was being so difficult. It was completely unfounded, really. She was injured and he was a mage, which meant that he could heal her wound within seconds. He just needed to see it so that he knew how much magic to focus into her, lest he overpower her with dizziness on the off chance that he used too much.

She sighed and didn't argue back, belatedly deciding that it would be far easier to just let him do what he felt was necessary. But unfortunately, nothing was ever so easy.

He was still struggling to figure out how to get her pauldrons off her shoulders (Rannve wasn't helping at all and he was a little annoyed at that) when all of the sudden a great commotion caught their attention. An unexpected clamoring abruptly pushed through the silence of the cavern, turning their heads to the ceiling, where it seemed to be coming from.

"Oh fuck," Rannve muttered, and threw herself up with a grimacing stumble. She snatched up her sword from where it was laying on the ground and then proceeded to grab Onmund by the arm and forcibly pull him to his feet.

"Um. What is that?" he asked, and immediately regretted it.

Rannve pursed her lips and shoved him forward with a groaned, "We seem to have awoken the rest of them."

He speared her with a confused look, but his baffled silence didn't last very long once her words registered.

"The rest of them?" he asked with growing horror. "You mean – "

"Did you actually think there was only a dozen Falmer in this entire damnable ruin?" she called, and grasped him by the arm to drag him across the room, casting a wary glance above them. It was too dark to see anything clearly, but she could just make out shapes moving wildly in the blackness that spanned above them. The blackness from which they themselves had just come. The spiraling decline of the path would take them some time to navigate, but Rannve wasn't naïve enough to think that it would allow them an easy retreat.

Onmund swallowed thickly, glancing overhead for only a moment as he wrapped an arm around Rannve's injured form and ran with her down the nearest hallway. It was an ancient place that looked like it hadn't been used for centuries, but Onmund barely noticed the cobwebs and the dust. He could hear only the scuffling down of many feet on the stone path, and it made his skin crawl with horror.

"That door – " Rannve gasped at his side. "We need to barricade it."

He nodded, though he doubted she noticed. Her face was drawn and pale, and he knew that she had lost far more blood than she wanted to admit, and was no doubt feeling the effects of it. Worry clung to him at the thought of her injury. He wished he'd had more time to heal her! He wasn't sure if he could do this alone.

The moment the reached the hulking bronze door at the end of the hallway, they both forced it open. The heavy metal took some effort to shift. They managed to open it just wide enough to slip through before shutting it once more and searching for something to lay across the handles, hoping to block it from being opened again.

But…it seemed that their luck had well and truly run out, for there was nothing but rocks and fallen debris littered around the doorway. Rannve wildly searched anyway, until Onmund came up with a rather abrupt idea.

"Stand over there," he told her quite suddenly, swinging around to catch her arms and drag her behind him. She cringed a little at the way the movement made pain tear through her, but Onmund was already turning back to face the door. A little pain would be a blessing if they escaped an entire horde of Falmer alive.

She watched him raise his hands to the door and bow his head, concentrating on whatever it was that he was doing. Magic flickered from his palms, slowly at first but with building intensity, until she had to look away lest the light of it blinded her. Whatever spell he was summoning, it looked to be incredibly powerful – far more potent than any she had seen from him before. And, amazingly enough, he appeared to have magicka to spare, because after a moment he began to weave an entirely different spell into the door, so that he was dual casting with both hands.

She gaped at this show of skill. Granted, Rannve didn't know nearly as much about magic as many others did. It had never captured her interest, and probably wouldn't have at all had she not been forced to go to the College of Winterhold for answers in her hunt for Alduin. But, though she had limited understanding of the art, even she knew how difficult it was to dual cast. It was certainly not an apprentice level skill. And yet here was Onmund – shy, endearing Onmund – doing what he was best at with such prowess that she could only stand there and stare, utterly blind to everything but him.

Had he always appeared so…dashing?

She wasn't sure how long he kept the spell up, but after what felt like ages he stumbled back from the door, looking far more exhausted than she'd ever seen him. When he turned to face her, he tiredly said, "That should keep them out."

Then he stumbled again, and would have fallen had Rannve not stepped forward to curl an arm around his waist and catch most of his weight. He cringed and gasped, "Sorry – er, I know you're injured – "

"I told you before, it's nothing," she interrupted, peering at him with a strange look on her face. He stared right back, face inches away, and felt himself blush at the way she studied him. It rather looked like she currently thought he was the most interesting thing in the world.

"What did you do?" she found herself asking him, very curious as to what spell had drained his magicka to such a degree. She glanced back at the door. The bronze metal almost seemed to be glowing very faintly, as if he had imbued it with magic that had transformed its very nature.

Onmund shrugged against her and explained, "I wove an electricity spell into the bronze, so that when someone touches it, they get zapped pretty badly."

It didn't seem like a big deal, really. He was a mage, after all, and he excelled in Alteration. Even Tolfdir had complimented him on his studies several times in the past. He was just good at it, in the same way that J'zargo was good at Destruction and Brelyna was good at Illusion and Rannve was good at…well, everything non-magical. He sent her a crooked smile that, for some reason, made her immediately look away, the pallor of her cheeks swiftly returning with a vengeance. Why she was flushing like that was something that fascinated him greatly, but neither of them really had time to speak about it, because they had both turned to face the rest of the room and all their words fell utterly short.

"…By the Nine," he murmured in awe.

Before them was a sight he had never thought to see. The cavern was quite literally hewn from the rock and was enormous, far bigger than anything they had yet come across within Alftand. There were huge bronze gates towering further away, across a courtyard of stone that probably hadn't been walked across in an age. And, beyond that, the entire far wall of the cavern was encased in more gleaming bronze, as if the Dwemer had splashed the molten metal right against the polished walls and left it to dry.

"…I think we've arrived, Onmund," Rannve whispered, for there was no other explanation for the sheer enormity of the sight before them. It could only be one thing: the gates of Blackreach itself.

He let out a puff of air, too enraptured to say anything. This was something from a dream. In all his life he never thought he would ever find himself at the gates of one of the most complex legends in history. The tales of Blackreach had only ever been glorified stories with some kernel of truth. No one had ever successfully discovered the place, and that truth had gradually fallen to myth over the centuries that it lay buried beneath the earth, never to be found.

Until now.

Chuckling beneath his breath in awe, Onmund glanced down at the woman by his side, who was supporting him as much as he was supporting her. He wondered when they had reached such equal footing in their odd relationship.

Turning to smirk back at him, Rannve said, "We should probably get going just in case your spell accidentally fails."

And just like that, Onmund rolled his eyes at her and glowered, "It won't fail."

She just shrugged, "I'm just saying."

As they stumbled forward together like two mismatched but undeniably congruent variables, he muttered, "Well don't."

And – Rannve laughed, because it was what she always did. Laugh at him, that is. But inside her heart was pounding out a tempo that was unlike any she had ever felt, and she had a distinct feeling that it was all because he was pressed against her and showing her sides of himself that she didn't know he had.


	27. Healing Hands

**A/N: In which Onmund heals Rannve and makes a shocking discovery during the process.**

 **I have no apologies for this chapter ;) Please enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Seven | Healing Hands**

Life was truly never easy. The pair of them had just barely managed to get the gate open and were almost at the top of the stairs when Rannve suddenly stopped, tightening her grasp of Onmund's arm and hissing, "Look!"

He looked. And he paled.

A massive Dwarven Centurion was standing on the other side of the landing they were approaching. So far, the automaton didn't appear to realize they were there, for it looked as though he was sleeping, almost. His metal eyes were shut, his head bowed over hulking bronze shoulders, hands relaxed at his sides. Onmund had little doubt that he was still in working order though. He might not have known much about Dwemer automatons before entering Alftand, but he knew enough now.

Onmund swallowed tightly and pulled her back down the stairs. By now, the harsher effects of his spell had retracted. Instead of being ready to collapse with bone-deep exhaustion, Onmund was merely tired, hungry, and sore. He still felt as though he could sleep for days on end, but he wasn't about to do it here.

Rannve was really the one being supported most between the two of them. They hadn't had time to properly treat her shoulder injury or even to bandage it. If that Centurion wasn't there, guarding the gates, then they would have pressed forward just to ensure that the hordes of Falmer they had caught the attention of hadn't somehow found another way into the cavern to enact their revenge.

In any case, Rannve didn't argue with him as he guided her back down the stairs, arm tight around her waist. Though any other day she might have allowed her cavalier impatience get the better of her, today was not that day. She couldn't go rushing into fighting a Dwarven Centurion with an untreated injury and a mage drained of his magicka. Not unless she had a death wish.

"We're gonna have to make camp somewhere and get some rest. We cannot take down a Centurion in the state we're in," Onmund murmured to her, careful to ensure that his voice didn't carry and accidentally awaken the automaton on the landing behind them.

Rannve grunted in agreement. "I'm starving anyway. I hate fighting on an empty stomach."

The nonchalant tone made Onmund sigh, "You should be more concerned about your injury. I bet it's infected. I doubt the Falmer clean their blades."

The words made her wrinkle her nose and snort, "That's disgusting Onmund – "

Sniffing disdainfully, he cut in, "You should've let me heal you before."

She rolled her eyes as he helped her walk to the center of the cavern. To be perfectly honest, she probably could have done it herself just fine. After all, she was wounded on the shoulder, not the leg. It was almost amusing how neither of them brought attention to that though. Rannve merely allowed him to assist her, and Onmund did not question it. He did wonder at her easy acceptance of his help, though. Her usual brand of impatient arrogance hardly allowed for such weakness to show. Normally, she would have sooner bit his head off than let him take her weight against him and support her.

What did that mean? As they walked back up the stairway on the opposite end of the cavern where the mechanism to open the first of the bronze gates had been discovered, Onmund studied her out of the corner of his eye. He could come to only two possible conclusions for this strange, accepting version of her. One, that she was far more injured than she was showing, and that she figured it was marginally less embarrassing to hang off of his arm than to collapse to the ground. Two, she liked having him close to her, enjoyed the feeling of his arm wrapped around her waist, only – she didn't want to admit that either, so she just allowed him his fretting and silently took pleasure in it.

…Even he had to admit that it seemed like a ridiculous notion. This was Rannve, after all. The same Rannve who had indolently explored Saarthal and did everything in her power to convince Urag to let her borrow the books she needed. The same Rannve who, when her convincing hadn't gotten her anywhere, had so brazenly decided to just waltz into Urag's personal chambers and take them herself. The same one who had brashly kissed him in the foyer of the library just to distract the Orc from their true purpose.

If she wanted to kiss him again, then she would have. The reasoning seemed solid enough, considering what he knew of her character. Rannve hardly ever thought too far ahead, at least in these sorts of mundane matters. She was selfish in all the best ways, and if she wanted something then she would just take it. Unfortunately for him, she had never wanted his heart, but she had it anyway.

Convinced, then, that she was far more injured than she let on, Onmund helped her sit down, saying, "Let me look at your injuries. I have just enough magic to heal them, I think." He began searching his pack for the magicka potion he knew was there somewhere. He'd brought several before leaving, as well as a few health potions. He'd prefer saving those for later and using his magic. After all, he had no idea what awaited them in the depths of Blackreach, and he wanted to be fully prepared.

Rannve would rather not have him dip into his already limited stores of magic to heal her. She was used to dealing with this sort of pain. But she knew Onmund, and she knew that he wouldn't rest until he had at least healed her wound as best he could given the circumstances, so she just sighed and began unbuckling her cuirass and lifting her pauldrons from her frame as he produced a magicka potion and downed it.

The bitter taste of the potion was nothing compared the sight of her wound, when at last she pushed the tunic she wore beneath her armor out of the way. Rannve wasn't able to get a good look at it given its position as it curled from under her arm around the back of her shoulder blade, but Onmund did.

"That looks…bad," he told her honestly, flickering his eyes up to meet hers as a grimace formed on his face. It was true. Though the wound itself was not deep, he had been right to worry about infection. And, despite the fact that Onmund had never seen very many injuries of this sort (magical accidents notwithstanding), even he knew what an infected wound looked like. There was no mistaking the puckering of her skin around the cut, nor the blackish hue that it took on.

Rannve shrugged, looking entirely unconcerned, and said, "Well it's a good thing you're a mage, then."

...So it would seem, but Onmund wasn't so sure. He had never been overly talented with the precise spells that the Restoration school required. The intense mental focus it took to cast a healing spell was always something he had struggled with. While he had the technical aspects of it down, focusing the power into an accurate rendition of a spell wasn't so simple. There were so many things that could go wrong, if a healing spell was done improperly. He could do more harm than good.

"Well, actually," he hedged, hands flittering over her shoulder unsurely, "I, erm…almost failed Restoration 101."

Rannve raised an eyebrow at him. He blushed.

Puffing her cheeks out, she slowly asked, "…In what way?"

He awkwardly cleared his throat and honestly responded, "I was supposed to heal a skeever for the final test, and I…accidentally killed it. The only reason I passed the class was because Colette felt bad for me."

Her eyebrow raised further, and his blush only deepened. It hadn't exactly been his plan to so bluntly tell her about his past failings, but he figured she deserved to know about them if she was to be his patient.

Rannve stared at him for a long moment, then breezily said, "Huh. Well I'm not a skeever, Onmund. I'm the – "

"Yes yes I know what you are," he cut in, rolling his eyes at her. Honestly! Did her arrogance ever have a filter?

She quipped an amused smirk and said, "I just witnessed you dual cast a spell into a huge door that has, so far, successfully kept an entire horde of Falmer out of this room. I think you can cast a healing spell on a tiny little cut."

He huffed, "It's not a tiny cut, Rannve."

She just gestured impatiently to the wound and he sighed. With pursed lips, he leaned closer and muttered, "You either need to take this tunic off or I need to cut the sleeve. I can't reach the wound."

She turned to look at him with eyebrows raised to her hairline, and his blush only worsened at the implications of her expression. Frustrated, he snapped, "I don't want to accidentally take your whole arm off! I need to focus on the entire wound. I told you, I'm not very good at – "

"Fine," she sighed, sitting up to wrestle her way out of the tunic. "But this had better not be because you just want to see my smalls."

Onmund, for his part, blushed a furious red and leaned back, indignantly exclaiming, "I would _never!"_ And then at Rannve's almost offended expression, he hurriedly said, "I mean – I…Talos, just stop being difficult."

She pressed down an amused smirk that she knew wouldn't help his cause and didn't argue any further. Onmund was very gentlemanly about it, really. He politely turned his head while she shuffled out of her tunic, leaving her in just the band of cloth that was bound around her breasts. Even when he turned back to her, he kept his eyes firmly on her injury and didn't allow them to wander at all. It was very…unexpected.

Partially because most of her companions wouldn't hesitate to send her a playful leer, and partially because for some reason she could not understand, she almost wanted him to showcase his interest in her. However, he was wearing his honor on his face as if it was the only expression he knew, jaw clenched as he turned her to the side and studied her injury, and even though he was blushing rather deeply, Onmund somehow managed to maintain an almost aloof detachment to their current situation that rather disappointed her. She quite liked watching him stumble around in his endearing shyness. There was something almost mesmerizing about it.

"Alright, now…hold still," he murmured, and she shivered.

In truth, this was unexpected for several other reasons, too. She hadn't quite expected that he would get so close to her. She could almost feel his breath against the top of her shoulder. And his hands, when they turned her, and now as they hovered just above her skin, were warm and calloused and gentle. To be honest, Rannve was far more focused on him than the dull pain of the cut. For a reason she didn't want to acknowledge, she could not hope to pay attention to anything else.

And – Talos, when he began summoning his magic and pouring it into her…

She bit down hard at the sheer warmth and comfort that was trickling over her skin. A shiver tore through her, and she closed her eyes tightly. After a moment, the whole of his hand came to rest against her skin on top of the cut, and the feeling grew more intense with the connection. His other hand remained on her upper arm, holding her gently in place in case she shifted and broke his concentration. He needn't have bothered though. She was lost to him in a way she'd never been before – a fact that she failed to realize in its entirety at this moment.

She could hear just the smallest snippets of the spell he was weaving into her. The words slid from his lips just barely. They were composed within a breath that did not have a voice, but she could feel them whisper their way against her nonetheless, as if he was pressed fully to her as a lover might, breathing endearments against her skin. It was strangely addicting and she didn't want him to stop. She found herself leaning back into him without thought, tilting her head back as she inhaled deeply around a sudden curl of desire. It ricocheted through her with adamant precision, lingering in such a way that she was unsure if it was truly her own passion or simply the spell that Onmund was pressing into her.

In truth, it was the smoldering burn of arousal that was what really snapped her out of it. This was Onmund. Onmund, her unlikely companion who had only gone on this journey with her because she'd accidentally gotten him suspended from the College – the very same place that he would surely return to without a moment's hesitation, with or without her. It hardly mattered that he liked her more than a friend might enjoy another's company. He was healing the cut marring her skin. Just because his magic was making her desire things that were frankly out of the question didn't mean he was doing it on purpose. Indeed, he probably had no idea what sort of effects his spell was having on her.

And yet – it was not merely the spell itself. It was the way he was pressing his hands against her skin and whispering the incantation beneath his breath, so close to her ear that it sent shivers through her. It was him and him alone that was making her crazy, and she was really already crazy enough without his assistance.

As the dull burn of arousal flickered through her, awakening a part of her that she had kept long buried, Rannve flew forward with a gasp, lurching away from him before he could do further harm to her sensibilities. At once, the warm curl of his magic stopped as she tumbled from his hold and broke free of his grasp. Onmund was so caught off guard by her sudden movement that his eyes flew open and his sudden lack of concentration made his spell putter out.

"Did I hurt you?" was his immediate question, remembering all too well the utter failure that was his final Restoration test. He'd been the only one in the class to have failed so spectacularly. It had only been because he'd poured himself into his studies with an exuberance not seen in his other classmates that Colette had allowed him to pass. If he had hurt Rannve because of his questionable grasp of Restoration, he'd never forgive himself.

But Rannve only leaned forward, hands fisted on the ground and head ducked between her arms, and breathlessly gasped, "No."

He didn't _hurt_ her. He only awakened her body in ways she had truly not anticipated. She…decided not to tell him that. For some reason, the notion embarrassed her greatly, as if she felt shameful for having such a reaction to his magic.

She had no way of knowing if it was normal. There had only been a few scant times that she'd been healed with magic, and most of them had occurred when she was unconscious. She didn't think it was a typical feeling to have though. She'd never heard any stories about such wayward uses of Restoration. Surely, if it was normal to feel arousal from a healing spell, it would be more widely spoken about in the pubs.

Behind her, Onmund fretted, "What did I do wrong? Are you sure you're alright? I – "

His words were cut off swiftly as she turned to look at him, eyes blazing into his with an expressiveness that frankly took his breath away. True, he was as much an apprentice when it came to intimacy as he was in magic, but Onmund was not blind, either. He was very observant, for a Nord, and not even Rannve's mask of nonchalance could hide the passion that was dilating her eyes and turning them to a dark gray.

He stared at her in shock. Surely she wasn't…? But no, Talos no, that couldn't possibly be true. He was only reeling from the broken healing spell and his mind was getting away from him.

Frowning, he reached for her. "I'm almost finished, Rannve. Just a little longer and – "

"No," she said again, but this time her voice was slightly less breathless. She swallowed thickly and grabbed her tunic. She couldn't pull it on fast enough.

The adamant refusal worried him. "Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

She shook her head quickly and stood up, stumbling a little at the way the sudden movement pulled her so abruptly out of the foggy pleasure that had just been inhabiting her body. With a clear of her throat, she stoutly walked over to her pack and said, "I'm fine now. Much better. Thank you."

He stared at her, utterly baffled, and watched as she began to buckle herself back into her armor. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about the way her eyes had blazed into his. There was something in those eyes that made him shiver, and there was something between them now that made him question her sudden distance.

He was missing something, but there was only one explanation that he could think of that might explain Rannve's uncharacteristic silence. Only one thing that would dampen her usually quick banter. Could it be possible?

He watched her closely as he searched for another magicka potion. She was adamantly looking anywhere but at him, restlessly shifting even as she buckled her armor into place, as if she was seconds away from pacing. For someone who had just had trouble climbing these stairs, she sure had a lot of energy.

He was being a little obvious with his staring and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself – especially when Rannve turned her head to catch his eye. The way her eyes widened and her head immediately turned back made him curious, as did the sight of the light blush that he could have sworn had taken a hold of her cheeks.

Rannve, blushing? Now that was uncommon. And yet, as Onmund was very perceptive, especially where it concerned her, he wondered if it really was so strange after all. He suddenly wondered if perhaps she liked him just a little bit more than she claimed.

He leaned back, casually sipping at the potion and attentively watching her reorganize her pack, and decided that there was really only one way to find out.


	28. Chain Lightning

**A/N: In which Rannve's impatience once again gets her into a spot of trouble, and Onmund is dragged into it.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Eight | Chain Lightning**

They rested for a while longer than was perhaps safe, considering that the Falmer they had angered were probably trying to find another way into the cavern just to hunt them down for killing their comrades and disturbing the peace of their home. So far, the enchantment Onmund had placed on the door was holding, but Rannve was concerned that their luck might run out. It usually did. Still, neither of them had slept for more than a few hours for what seemed like ages, and they needed the rest. If only Rannve's body would agree.

They bunkered down, unrolling their bedrolls after having a small meal. There was no way of knowing, at this point, what time of day it was above the surface. As they had their supper, it could have been morning for all they knew. Rannve's internal clock was hard pressed to keep track of the time when they were constantly surrounded by the nearly complete darkness of this underground ruin.

Onmund had drifted off to sleep almost immediately, nestled beneath several furs. He was clearly exhausted from using so much of his magic, and a proper rest was the only true fix. Unfortunately for Rannve, though, sleep seemed to evade her entirely.

She wasn't sure if it was because Onmund's magic was still coursing through her or if it was simply her overactive thoughts. She couldn't stop the quick race of her mind even as she willed herself to get some sleep. Just knowing that Onmund was only a few scant yards away from her made her restless. She found herself yearning for the very same confusion that had frustrated her for the past few days, if only because it allowed her to ignore the wayward spin of her heart. Unfortunately, she was battling with no such confusion now.

Her mind was turning over a single truth with a clarity that had been absent from her thoughts before. The more she considered it, the more apparent it became, until there was no way of pushing it to the side and pretending that it did not exist. The truth was simple: that despite her previous misgivings regarding Onmund's character, and despite the fact that he was not the type that usually sparked her interest, she _liked_ him.

She liked him far more than she'd ever thought possible. And it wasn't just a faint flicker of affection, either. He had made her feel a desire that she was unaccustomed to. She _wanted_ him – as a friend, as a confidante…as a lover. It frightened her because she didn't want to want him, and yet her heart had betrayed the normally stoic quality of her mind, as hearts often have a tendency of doing at the most inconvenient moments.

She grumbled to herself as she laid there, frustrated that her body was still feeling the effects of Onmund's spell. She couldn't think about anything but him, and she knew that it was a dangerous path to go down. Besides the fact that love itself was more dangerous to her than most, considering who she was, they were in the center of a perilous underground hell that could very well become their grave if they weren't careful. She should be more concerned with staying alive. It just figured that the moment she actually needed her full faculties, her heart would distract her with such silly, ridiculous considerations.

Sighing, Rannve sat up, rubbing at her eyes. She cast another glance at Onmund's peacefully sleeping figure and frowned at him. She was just a little frustrated that he could find sleep so easily when she was struggling with feelings that were entirely his fault. Shouldn't he _also_ be struggling, if he liked her as much as he claimed?

With an exasperated, tired grunt, she stood up and went to retrieve her weapons, deciding to make use of her sleeplessness to instead do something useful. She might as well scout the cavern to see if she could find a way around the Dwarven Centurion that was guarding the gates. She really hated Centurions. They were menacing things, and the burning steam they blew at their unwitting opponents was far from pleasant.

She felt much better as she descended the stairs. Despite the wayward effects of Onmund's healing spell, it did succeed at healing the majority of her injury. There was still the slightest twinge of pain whenever she moved her shoulder, but it was easily ignored as she strode down the stone stairs and headed across the courtyard, leaving her sleeping mage where he lay. He would probably be furious at her for abandoning him like this, but he needed the rest if he wanted to restore his magicka reserves, and it wasn't like she was leaving him indefinitely. He wouldn't even realize she was gone. She was only going to scout the area a bit and consider what the best course of action was.

That was her intention, at least, but even the best of intentions sometimes went awry when one was knee-deep in a Dwemer ruin miles below the surface of the earth.

She crept back up the steps that led to the gate and crouched against the top stair; a silent sentinel overlooking the most recent danger. The Centurion was still in the metal cradle that powered it, eyes shut as if in sleep. Another twinge of annoyance colored her. Why was she the only one who was unable to find the restful mercy of a peaceful night's sleep?

Folding her chin on her palm, Rannve peered across the stone landing. Nearer to her, there was the remains of another Centurion that had somehow found its end prior to their arrival. There was a heavy layer of dust on its bronze frame, rescinding any worries she might have had about any recent travelers here. She didn't see any skeletons of bygone adventurers, but neither did she see any immediate signs of life beyond the sleeping Centurion several meters away.

Beyond this stone landing was another staircase that jutted further up. There were gleaming bronze pillars on the higher stone dais that surrounded a pedestal made of the same metal. She wasn't close enough to see what the pedestal contained or what purpose it had, but she would have bet her life that it was the way inside of Blackreach.

She sighed out in frustration. They were so close to their destination and yet so far, and she was impatient to finish this quest. As if she wasn't already anticipating breathing in the crisp air of Skyrim, now she also had the aggravating beat of her own heart to deal with too! The faster she could get away from Onmund, the better. She had no interest in the tides of romance. She was far too busy to deal with the intricacies of her own emotions and besides that, she had never before gone down that road. The few dealings she's had with the opposite sex over the course of her life were short and casual. This was not, at least not if the brimming affection she felt whenever she looked at Onmund said anything on the matter, and she figured that it did.

It said quite a lot.

She heaved another sigh and pursed her lips, annoyed at herself for thinking about him _again_ when she should be more focused on her self-imposed scouting mission. And – perhaps her sigh was louder than she'd anticipated, but soon enough she had no choice _but_ to focus on said mission, because at that moment, the Centurion's glowing blue eyes shot open.

It was hard not to notice the sudden crease of blue light in the relative darkness of the cavern. She noticed it almost immediately, and she scuttled backwards with an accidental, _"Fuck,"_ that definitely didn't help her cause. The Centurion's head swiveled towards her, and she knew she was screwed.

"Oh damn," she blundered, scrabbling for her blades and unsheathing them as quickly as her shaking hands allowed. This had not been in her plans and she was more than a little fearful of facing down a Centurion without a proper strategy. She might've been the Dragonborn extraordinaire, but she wasn't immortal.

For the first time in what was probably centuries, the Centurion awakened to the courtyard that was his home. A riotous clanking of metal plates sounded as he stepped out of the cradle of bronze. His eyes were staring right at her, or at least it seemed that way as Rannve pushed herself up and hurried into a defensive position. All hopes of stealth were lost now. She'd have to do this the old fashioned way – without Onmund's magic, for now. At least not until he inevitably woke up to the clashing sound of the Centurion's heavy footsteps as he clanged forward.

Oh Talos, her mage was going to be so furious with her…

It wasn't all that rare that Rannve blundered into situations without forethought. She happened to excel at allowing her impatience to get the better of her. It wasn't so very surprising that she found herself in this sticky situation as a result, unpleasant though it was. That didn't stop her from cursing her terrible luck, though.

She barely managed to dodge out of the way of the hulking bronze fist that pushed forward, and landed rather inelegantly in a heap of steel armor several feet away. Centurion's had a very annoying tendency of simply swiveling their torso's around and continuing their attacks without being fazed, and this one was no exception. She was forced to roll out of the way as he slammed his fist where her head had been moments before, and he ended up cracking the stone from the sheer force of the punch. Talos, but if she wasn't able to evade a hit like that, she'd be nothing more than shattered bones.

Still, this wasn't her first run-in with a Centurion. Though she tried her best to avoid Dwemer ruins whenever possible, she had been inside of them before. She fell into the very same attack pattern that she usually used when fighting an enemy like this: dodge, duck, and swivel out of the way of oncoming attacks. It was a little discouraging, but it wasn't as if her sword would do much damage to its hulking metal frame.

No, there was only one way to stop an automaton, no matter if it was a small dwarven spider of a huge Centurion. She had to target the wires that kept the thing moving, channeling the energy that pumped through its frame and powered its attacks. The problem was, it was a little hard to focus on the tiny network of wires running between the carefully crafted plates of metal when she had to continuously throw herself out of the way of his punches.

She circled the thing again and again, ducking away from relentless fists and bursts of steam, trying to pinpoint the best place to thrust her sword. She knew from experience that the wires along the Centurion's arms and legs would not completely halt its movements. She had to aim her blade at the control panel at the base of its neck, which was fairly well protected by a sheet of bronze. The trick was to aim the blade upwards, arching it so that it slid beneath the metal sheet. It was not an easy thing to do, though, especially when the Centurion had a habit of swiveling its head to face her no matter what direction its feet were pointed in.

She grunted in frustration as she flung herself away from yet another punch. This one completely shattered the stone of the courtyard, sending fissures through the rock. She very nearly tripped on one as she jumped back the way she'd come to avoid being kicked by the Centurion's plated boot, and cringed when she came face to face with it. It took only a second for the creature to blow boiling steam into her eyes, and only a moment more for it to throw a punch into her stomach.

Rannve gasped breathlessly as the force of the punch pushed her back like a ragdoll. She landed in a heap across the landing, nearly tumbling down the stairs before she caught herself on the edge and tried to catch her breath, too. But the punch knocked every ounce of air from her lungs, and she could only lay there, rattling in and out as if her chest had collapsed, and blinking furiously in hopes of restoring her eyesight. That burst of scalding steam had done a number on her.

That was about the moment when a harried, "Rannve!" came echoing through the great cavern, and she cursed yet again. It seemed that Onmund had woken up. She blinked, squinting into the darkness for his figure, but was rather distracted by the sound of the Centurion's clanging footsteps as he hurtled forward.

Groaning, she rolled over, still breathless and blurry-eyed, and peered at the gleaming bronze creature barreling right for her. For a moment, she was sure she was about to die. But then out of nowhere, a bright burst of electricity shot over her and threw the Centurion back. The lightning kept coming without pause, ricocheting through the darkness with a ferocity that seemed to push the Centurion backwards step by step. The creature seemed to have a weakness for it, perhaps due in part to its metal body. It seemed to act as a conductor for the electricity because the entire frame began to pulsate with it, making sharp little movements as it seized and shuddered.

Well. Rannve was never one to miss an opportunity. She dragged herself up, still breathless, and threw herself forward. The Centurion watched her duck around its form, but it couldn't seem to move as quickly as it had before. It was weakened from the lightning that sapped its strength, and that made it all too easy for her to slid her blade beneath the metal flap that guarded its main control panel.

Of course, she hadn't really thought about the repercussions. The moment she stuck her _metal_ blade into the _metal_ frame that was rife with electricity, a terrible bolt of it traveled down her sword and stole what little breath she had left. She barely managed to press the blade in deep enough before she collapsed, heaving on the stone floor as she tried and failed to fill her lungs with air.

It seemed to do the trick though, for the glowing blue eyes flickered out for good, and a moment later, the Centurion collapsed entirely…directly on top of her. Talos, but her luck truly had deserted her.

The last thing she heard was a startled shout that sounded distinctly like Onmund, before the combined weight of her own exhaustion and the Centurion's frame whispered her off into the blackness of unconsciousness.


	29. Steadfast Ward

**A/N: In which one Centurion is dealt with**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty Nine | Steadfast Ward**

When he had awoken to the clatter of metal, Onmund's first thought had been that the spell he had woven into the door had failed. He couldn't have been more wrong, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it meant that they weren't about to be skewered by angry Falmer, and a curse because apparently, there was no 'they' at all. Rannve was nowhere to be found, and that usually meant trouble.

He was right. It didn't take him very long to figure out where the sound was coming from, and when he did look up to see the previously sleeping Centurion swinging its massive metal arm at Rannve's figure, he wasn't sure what was worse – that she hadn't woken him up to have him assist her in taking down the creature, or that she had decided to fight it in the first place.

He couldn't say what force lifted him up and sent him running to the upper dais where the fight was being had, only that it felt very much like fear. When he watched in horror as the Centurion swung a punch right into Rannve's stomach and sent her flying through the air, the determination that summoned his magic was beginning to feel quite familiar. He supposed that, considering the dire straits that seemed to summarize this entire quest, he shouldn't have been very surprised that his magic came to him more easily every time he focused on it.

The spell he conjured was far from apprentice level Destruction. Faralda, who usually taught those classes, would have been quite proud of him had she witnessed the ongoing stream of lightning that blasted from his fingertips. He might've even given J'zargo a run for his money – a feat that he never would have thought he'd achieve.

Rannve seemed to be injured _again_ (honestly!), but it didn't stop her from throwing herself toward the Centurion as his spell captured the creature's attention and pushed the enormous automaton back. She didn't even hesitate when she arched her blade into the Centurion's neck, effectively taking the entire thing down even as she got caught up in the electrical backlash of his spell. He cried out as he watched her fall, and the Centurion along with her. When he forcibly cut his magic off and vaulted up the steps to push the hulking creature off of her, he was sure that she was dead, until he saw the faint rise of her chest.

Talos, this woman would give him a heart attack one of these days!

"Rannve?" he murmured, patting her cheeks a little as if he hoped that it would bring her back to consciousness. As it was, it did nothing but turn her head. There was no sign of life from her except for the shallow breathing he could barely make out.

He didn't even hesitate as he flung his hands over her cheeks, bowed down over her form, and pushed his magic into her. It was a strange thing, to be sure, that he seemed to have a stronger grasp of Restoration than he'd ever had before. Perhaps it was his growing confidence with his magic; perhaps the fact that he was determined to ensure that she didn't die on him, because he had every intention of killing her himself when she woke up.

Impatient woman! He couldn't believe she'd gone and aggravated a Centurion while he slept peacefully in his bedroll. Was there ever an end to her hot-tempered decisions?

After a few minutes, he stopped the spell. Her breath was deeper now and he knew she wasn't on the brink of death, so Onmund sat back with a tired sigh and observed the situation he suddenly found himself in.

The Centurion was an unmoving mass beside them, a little too close for comfort but presumably dead. There were errant Falmer roaming the halls of this place hunting them down. They were on the doorstep of Blackreach, and he had no idea what dangers awaited them inside. And Rannve was passed out because she was far too impatient and restless to give him a few scant hours of peace before recklessly plunging headfirst into another sticky situation.

Honestly, how had she managed to survive this long, anyway? He was frankly shocked that her foolhardy behavior hadn't gotten her killed sooner.

Sighing, Onmund stood up and began to heave her up the last of the steps. He wanted to be as far from that Centurion as possible, on the off chance that there was still some spark of life lurking beneath the surface of its currently dull eyes. It vaguely occurred to him as he was pulling Rannve onto the upper dais that, several months ago, he would have been utterly aghast at being this close to a Dwarven Centurion. Back in Saarthal, he had tiptoed around the bodies of fallen draugr with much more fright, and yet here he was, rolling his eyes at the sight of the hulking automaton and barely finding the restraint to kick it as he passed, just for the hell of it.

It was only as he was trekking back across the courtyard below to retrieve their packs that the situation really hit home for him. He had just taken out a _Centurion_ , practically all by himself! Well, of course Rannve had been the one to give the final blow, but he had stopped it right in its tracks with a single burst of magic. He let out an amazed laugh at the memory of it seizing from his lightning. If only his family could see him now, they'd be quick to take back their doubts about him going to the College and following his dream. Why, he'd bet that most of the professors, who were masters of their chosen schools, had never done anything so incredible!

He was feeling quite good about himself as he trudged back across the courtyard, arms laden with their packs. When he passed the fallen Centurion, he gave its frozen bronze face a scoff as he started up the stairs to where he'd left Rannve. She was just as she was before, breathing more deeply but still unconscious, and Onmund decided that it would probably be best to make sure that she was fully healed, though he had half a mind to let her suffer for a little while in retribution.

He knelt down beside her and began unbuckling her armor, keeping his movements clinical and not allowing his affection for her to get in his way – affection that only kept growing despite her stunts. When her cuirass was off, he carefully pushed the tunic up her stomach to see the damage of the Centurion's punch, and paled a little at the sight of the bruising. No wonder she hadn't been breathing very well before; her entire stomach was one dark bruise. She'd probably broken quite a few ribs from that hit.

He gently rested both hands on her stomach and poured more magic into her. The golden spell glowed as it was absorbed into her skin, and he watched curiously as it began to erase all hints of her wounds. His spell from before had already stitched up most of the internal damage that the punch had left, and so it didn't take much of his magic to finish the job and to heal the mottled bruise that spanned the majority of her torso.

After that, he pulled her tunic back down and leaned back, stretching his fingers a bit before unrolling one of the bedrolls and lifting her figure onto it. He drew out one of the fur blankets, too, tucking it around her with a gentleness that could only be borne from the intense affection he felt for her, and rocked back on his heels to study her.

She looked much better now. Her cheeks had regained some of their color, and her expression was peaceful. He reached out to brush a strand of her auburn hair from her eyes and couldn't help but drag his knuckle down her cheek. She truly was beautiful, in a callous sort of way. Perhaps not as delicate as some, but lovely nonetheless.

His thoughts verged back onto the way she had looked at him only hours before, after he had healed her the first time. The darkness of her eyes reminded him of passion and even lust. It was an unmistakable expression that he'd been shocked to see on her face, and directed at him no less. He would give anything to know what she had been thinking then, when she'd looked at him with those eyes – what desires she had, and why he seemed to be at the forefront of them.

All he knew was that he wasn't going to ignore that look. If he was ever graced with it again, he would not allow his shock to make him falter. He already felt like he was a different man than the one who had entered this place. Something inside of him had irrevocably changed – he hoped for the better. Who knows? Perhaps he'd even take a page out of Rannve's book. He was allowed to be selfish every once in a while, right? He was, after all, only human.

Rannve shifted in the bedroll, and it was almost as if she knew he was there, because she groaned very faintly, "Onmund…" before falling silent again and inhaling deeply.

The sound of his name on her lips made his heart lurch, barraging against his chest like a drum. He stared at her sleeping face with a reverent sort of expression that he was glad she couldn't see, because it would have made him blush all the worse. Biting his cheek to suppress his boyish smile, he turned to fetch his own bedroll, deciding that perhaps it would be a good idea to get a little more sleep. He would berate her for her impudence later. For now…

He dragged a blanket from his pack and laid down. The last thing he saw before he succumbed to sleep was the sight of her beside him; and the last thing he heard was the quiet breath that left her lips; and the last thing he thought was that he wouldn't mind terribly if she said his name in that breathless voice again, because it made him shiver with far more emotion that he'd ever felt for anyone in his life.


	30. Dragonhide

**A/N: In which Onmund's honesty leaves Rannve a bit disgruntled, and they open the gates of Blackreach.**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty | Dragonhide**

When Rannve woke up, she was not in pain. She vividly recalled the fight with the Centurion. The memory of the punch she'd received and all that had occurred after it hit her with an immediacy bred from instinct, and she rushed into a sitting position expecting to see the Centurion towering over her to land its death blow. Instead, all she saw was the dimness of Alftand and the fallen automaton below her on the central landing.

Curiously, she turned, looking for her mage. He was asleep beside her a few feet away, comfortably nestled in his bedroll as if the past events had never even occurred. He looked peaceful and handsome, and she rolled her eyes at her wayward thoughts because she knew that nothing good could come from them. This particular distraction had, after all, gotten her into the mess with the Centurion to begin with. If she'd been paying more attention to her surroundings and not thinking so hard about Onmund, she wouldn't have accidentally woken the creature up.

Glancing down at herself through the dim light, she saw that Onmund had removed her cuirass. She still wore the padded steel greaves and boots, but her upper torso had been stripped down to her tunic. Immediately wary, she patted her stomach hesitantly to see how bad the damage was, but found that she was met with no pain at all. She pulled her tunic up a little to get a better look, but there was no physical trace of the Centurion's punch despite the fact that she was quite sure that it had resulted in several shattered ribs.

Well.

Who knew that mages were so useful?

Rannve hummed a bit at the thought and scrambled up, intent on hunting down a bit of dried meat to sate her hunger. She didn't get very far before Onmund muttered, "You need to rest."

Startled that he was awake, Rannve turned to face him with a surprised expression. He raised a sleepy eyebrow and slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm perfectly fine," she shrugged, and went back to the pack. He must've gone back for them sometime while she was out of it.

A flash of frustration lit his eyes and he said, "Only because I healed you with my magic, which by the way, I didn't have much of because you rushed into a fight with a _Centurion_ before I was prepared."

His speech made her pause just as she was biting off a bit of the dried meat. When she turned to face him, she was surprised at the adamant expression on his face…and the equally adamant words.

"I didn't mean to," she defended, and started chewing petulantly.

He huffed at her and sighed, "How do you _not mean to_ start a fight with an Dwarven Centurion?"

She frowned and muttered, "It was your fault anyhow…"

He gaped at her. _"My_ fault? I was asleep!"

She frowned deeper and sighed, knowing better than to continue down this particular tract. He certainly didn't need to know that she was so distracted by thoughts of him that it made her stumble into a fight as though she was still a green rookie with no experience. Talos – he would _never_ need to know that.

"Well it hardly matters now," she said breezily, trying to brush the entire situation off with a wave of her hand. "The Centurion is dead, I'm healed, and you've certainly proven your worth once again. I suppose I should thank you. I certainly don't regret bringing you along with me now."

Onmund, for his part, just gaped at her all the harder and spluttered, "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

She was so – aggravating!

Rannve gave him a wide smirk and bite into the meat. As she chewed, she inelegantly said, "Like I said, you've proven your worth. I should bring a mage with me on all of my adventures."

He stared at her for a long moment before sighing and reaching for his own pack, deciding to get out some rations and eat with her. He was dreadfully sick of dried meat, but it was better than an empty stomach. Slanting his eyes over at her, he said in a softer voice, "I'm glad you're alright. You gave me quite a scare you know."

The sincerity of his words made her stop and glance over at him, and he was extremely pleased to see that her expression had returned to the same one as before. The wide-eyed, girlish look had him smiling, and it was that very smile that seemed to break the spell. She stared at his mouth for a moment before wrinkling her nose at him and turning back to her meal with a vengeance, as if she wanted nothing more than to ignore his very existence.

Now Onmund was a very honorable sort of man. He rarely did anything that would inadvertently make him enemies, and he tried his best to be as respectful as he could to those who earned it. He certainly had a strong moral compass, and treated people with decency and honesty. There was nothing he loathed more than a liar. But every once in a while, he thought it necessary to be a little less frank and a little more shrewd. This was one of those times.

Inching closer, he carefully murmured, "Are you in any pain? Just say the word and I'll heal you like I did the last time."

The last time, when she had shivered under his touch and unraveled into a mess of what, to him, seemed like passion. He just needed to be sure…

He watched her closely, searching for any sign of the wayward fire that had captured her eyes before. To his utter surprise and pleasure, her eyes flashed minutely with it before she turned her face away and stiffly said, "I'm fine. Stop babying me."

Well he might not be the most heroic or dashing man alive, but he wasn't stupid and he certainly wasn't blind. He definitely saw something on her face just now. He might even say that it looked like desire.

Pausing for a moment to collect himself, Onmund slowly said, "Alright. Just maybe you could tell me in advance the next time you throw yourself at a huge automaton, because I would prefer you alive."

He didn't even try to hide the quiet honesty and even yearning in his voice. He _wanted_ her to hear it. He wanted to see how long it would take until she either snapped at him to stop with his subtle flirtations or gave into her desire – and which of the two inclinations was more powerful.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and for a moment, he became completely still, waiting for her to catch on…but instead all Rannve did was roll her eyes and sarcastically drawl, "Yes, next time I'll make sure to warn you before jumping into a fight, because I'm sure I'll have _plenty_ of time to calmly explain it beforehand."

Onmund only grinned at her and laughed. She could hide behind her sarcasm as much as she wanted, but he was beginning to realize that it was all a front. All he had to do was break down those boundaries, and maybe he'd get to see what exactly she was hiding.

They fell into a relaxed silence as they finished their haphazard meal and started rolling their bedrolls back up. Once they were done, they walked over to the bronze pedestal that was jutting up in the center of the dais. Onmund had been a bit preoccupied to really study it before, but now he peered down at the markings with an inquisitive look on his face. The entire structure was made out of bronze and came up to his waist in height. At the center was a curious little indentation.

"What do you think goes in there?" Rannve murmured, tracing the indent idly. Around it was a circle cut from the bronze, with a seam that separated it just slightly from the rest of the surface.

He glanced at her and suggested, "Septimus gave us two gadgets. Maybe one of them goes in here."

She looked at him, snorting at the memory of that crazy, fish hording old man, and began riffling around in her pack. She'd tossed the objects at the bottommost corner of it weeks ago and it took her a little while to locate them. After a few minutes of her search, she finally pulled out a round object that appeared to be the same size as the indentation. Upon fitting it in, Onmund appeared to be correct.

"Would you like to do the honors?" she asked, gesturing to the pedestal. With the rounded object now resting on top of it, it looked like it was a knob that would turn in a similar way that one might twist a door open.

Onmund glanced at her with excited eyes and said, "My da would never believe me if I told him I opened the door to Blackreach itself."

Rannve just chuckled. "Well, at least you've got a witness to back your story up."

He smiled at her, then turned to the pedestal. Reaching out, he pressed his hand against the cool bronze, pushed it down, and twisted it. The entire circle that it was resting upon turned as well, until he could rotate it no more. And then, mere moments later, a loud noise began to shift through the room, and a stairway began to slowly emerge out of the floor.

They stared at it in shock, having never seen the likes of it before. It seemed to descend into total darkness. They could only see a few feet down it, but Rannve imagined that it must descend very far indeed.

Onmund turned to face her, and she turned to face him, and he breathed, "We actually did it."

She quirked a smile and confidently said, "Of course we did. I'm the _Dragonborn_ , Onmund – and you're my battlemage!" Then, winking, she added, "That makes us both pretty important, I'd say. Now shall we get on with it? I want to see if Blackreach is really as amazing as the legends say."

She immediately set off for the stairs, and so she didn't see the grin that quickly spread across Onmund's face. _Her_ battlemage? He quite liked the sound of that – both parts of it, really, but most especially the part where she had claimed him as her own.


	31. Clairvoyance

**A/N: In which Rannve and Onmund finally enter Blackreach, and Onmund's confidence reaches new heights. Sort of ;)**

 **theawesomest5: Lol! Yes, this story is probably the slowest burn one that I've ever wrote. Rannve is extremely stubborn and she just can't admit that she likes Onmund - I don't know why, it's just how she ended up being! They will eventually get together though, and I'm trying to add moments between them to make things more interesting. There's one in this chapter too ;)**

 **Merry Christmas everyone! I'm posting another chapter tonight as a little gift to everyone who reads this story. Hope you all enjoy, and have a great holiday!**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty One | Clairvoyance**

If the darkness of Alftand was cold and unforgiving, Blackreach was a world on its own. It was ethereal in a way Alftand, or anywhere else in Skyrim, was not. Though the darkness was pitch black in some places, to the extent that one couldn't even see their hand when it was waved right in front of their nose, it was also bright and oddly welcoming in a strange way. It was as if the very stars from the heavens had been cast upon this place, shining their luminescence into this underground cosmos.

"By the Nine…" Onmund breathed as they took their first steps into Blackreach.

His eyes didn't seem to know where to look. They darted everywhere, alighting on all manners of strange and wonderful things that he had never before seen. Mushrooms that hung, suspended almost, from the ceiling, glowed a dazzling bluish light. Flecks of what he assumed to be their spores floated down from them like snow, glistening beneath their shimmering incandescence as they meandered slowly to the ground. And – the ground! It was incredible, like its own civilization. He could see buildings in the distance and roads of bronze that flowed through the city like a waterfall of gold. Their glittering metals twinkled from the celestial light that that luminescent mushrooms and the crystals in the ceiling far above provided. He was utterly breathless at the sight of it all.

Rannve was in a similar state. For once, she didn't have a single thing to say.

The Dwemer truly were an incredible race, if not proud and malignant on their off days. To have created such a spectacular world so far underground was feat that surpassed even their greatest accomplishments, of which history claimed were many.

From their perch atop the tall stairway that the gates of Blackreach had opened them to, they could see across a large portion of the place. In truth, Rannve hadn't known what to expect, only that she hadn't anticipated there being quite so many lights speckled through this world. She could see far into the distance. The cavern was enormous, vast in in a way she had not thought to see, though she supposed it made sense. According to legend, Blackreach spanned out between three Dwemer cities, connecting them and acting as both a place of diplomacy as well as a place of trade.

Looking upon the bronze roads, she could almost imagine the carts that would tread over them once upon a time, carrying marvels of the ancient world. She would have liked to see this place in its full glory and witnessed the markets where those goods were bought and sold. Now, this massive world was emptied of the souls that used to inhabit it, but it was all too easy to imagine a sprawling life here. They seemed to have had everything they needed.

In the distance could be heard a great rush of what could only be water, flowing through the glittering cavern somewhere beyond their sight. A huge orb of glowing light was casting its warm, honeyed illumination onto what appeared to be some sort of fortress at the center, as if the Dwemer, in their quest to recreate nature itself, had deemed it appropriate to give this place its own personal sun. And, from what she could see from their current perch, it looked as though the rocky cave floor that should have been there was not, and in its place was soil that could be cultivated with seed and plants.

The familiar itch to explore catapulted through Rannve with intense force. She wanted to walk every inch of this place until there were no wonders left unseen, no knowledge left unknown. It was with a fierce clench of her fist that she reminded herself of her quest. No matter how much she'd like to spend days, weeks, even months, down here, she simply did not have the time. Alduin would certainly not wait for her to overturn century old artifacts in the bowels of the earth. He would sooner eat said earth, with or without her intervention. In fact, he would most likely prefer the latter.

No. She could not waste time here, no matter how desperately she wished to. Time was the very thing she needed _more_ of. It slipped through her fingers like sand through an hourglass, pressing her toward the destiny that she had spent the better part of her life adamantly ignoring. She no longer had that luxury.

In the distance, a tower rose from its perch on the ground all the way up to the ceiling, and perhaps even beyond it. Her eyes alighted on it curiously, then she turned to Onmund and murmured, "I'd bet my soul that's the Tower of Mzark."

The Tower of Mzark; their ultimate destination. Septimus was good for something, at least, besides his aptitude for shoving salmon down his throat at the least opportune moments. He was a crazed old man, but his baffling description of this place gave them just enough insight to know that the Tower was where the lexicon was to be transcribed, and where the Elder Scroll was said to be. She just hoped he was right, and that he hadn't sent them down here on an insane whim.

Onmund glanced over at her. They were standing in nearly complete darkness atop the stairs, where very little of the light could reach, so he only saw the outline of her figure against the cavern wall.

"I recommend that you don't make bets with your soul," he said lightly, and chuckled, "considering how many forces are already gambling with it."

Rannve chuckled too and agreed, "That's true." Then, cracking her knuckles eagerly, she murmured, "Where should we go first? There's so much to see, I – Talos, I wish I had an age to explore this place."

There was a strange yearning in her voice that he found very pleasant; an almost childish wonder that made his heart thump tenderly in his chest. He wished he could see her face to watch that yearning crease itself over her expression. He imagined that it was beautiful, perhaps even more lovely than the entirety of this place, but – he was getting ahead of himself.

"Perhaps we should take the road, like two civilized Nords," he suggested dryly, knowing of her penchant for throwing herself off the beaten path and getting irrevocably lost in the process. He crossed his arms as she snickered. The sound sent delightful little shivers through the length of his body. He quite enjoyed the irresistible touch of mischief that colored her laugh whenever she was in one of her moods. It did silly things to him.

"That's not very fun," she responded, but didn't seem to have a problem with it as they began careful maneuvering towards the edge of the platform they were on. They could barely see their feet at all – or the stairs, when they stumbled upon them.

A rather undignified squeak left her lips when did find them, and she very nearly fell to the bottom in what would have been a highly embarrassing feat. She didn't, of course, because Onmund's arm snatched her away from the precipice before she could tumble down, and the force of his catch sent her right into his arms with a rather dashing finesse that was, admittedly, completely accidental.

Not that he was complaining. The scent of pine twisted into the spaces between them, and the strands of her hair pressed against his cheek with a softness that seemed out of place, for her. Her hands were clamped down onto his arms. His were tight about her waist, and even though she was wearing plated armor and knew that it was impossible, she could have sworn she felt the heat of his fingers against her nonetheless.

She was very glad it was so dark, because she was blushing. To Oblivion with these blushes! She cleared her throat awkwardly and cursed at her sudden penchant for them. She'd never blushed so much in her life, until Onmund had stumbled into it. To Oblivion with _him_.

"…Are you alright?" he breathed against her hair, enjoying the proximity just a little too much. He couldn't bring himself to release her. She felt wonderful in his arms, and he could inhale the scent of pine all day and never tire of it, and feel the shallowness of her breath against his neck and never want for anything else. Maybe it was selfish of him. He didn't care.

He felt her shiver against him and had a feeling that she liked being in his arms too, until of course her pride got the better of her and she gruffly pulled away to mutter, "Its just a set of stairs, Onmund. I think I'll be okay. I've fought _dragons_ without – "

"Yes, you're the Dragonborn, I think I've figured that out by now," he rolled his eyes. She didn't see, and she huffed at his tone.

"Let's just keep going," she said, wanting nothing more than to get out of his grasp once and for all. His hold of her was beginning to go to her head, filling it with ridiculous notions that were horrifyingly sweet.

He sighed and together, they began an awkward shuffle down the steps, for they couldn't see them at all. As a result, they had to maneuver very carefully, feeling the stairs with one foot before safely stepping down, and clutching at each other's arm to keep their balance as they went. It was an inelegant descent, but the darkness was so complete that it couldn't be helped. Strangely enough, by the time they reached the bottom, the glowing light from the mushrooms high above them illuminated the path just enough for them to see a little more clearly – and, unfortunately, to make their hold of each other unnecessary.

On the ground, the aerial view they'd had before was diminished. The twisting path was the only thing to be seen. That, and a small building perched nearby that had gone unnoticed before, distracted as they were to the sheer vastness of everything else. Curiosity drove them towards it, until they caught sight of the unmistakable form of a dwarven sphere lingering on the modest doorstep.

"Perhaps more of that lightning?" Rannve suggested, tilting her head as they studied the lone sphere. It wouldn't take long to subdue it. As far as she could tell, it was alone.

Onmund flexed his hands and nodded, creeping forward to get into range while Rannve hung back and strung her bow just in case he needed assistance. She fully intended on letting him take the lead with this one. He had proven that he could handle himself in a fight. The way he had so thoroughly electrocuted the Centurion was testimony to his growing confidence his innate talent.

He handled the sphere in much the same manner, to her enjoyment. It was truly a sight to see. The way he wielded his magic was addicting, and even her stubborn pride couldn't deny it. She had certainly grown an appreciation for mages since getting to know Onmund. Before him, she hadn't thought very highly of them – a byproduct, perhaps, of Nordic custom. But as his lightning sizzled the thing to a crisp within seconds, she had to admit that her perspective had changed considerably in several ways. First, her view of mages in general; second, her view of him.

She had never seen mages as being particular masculine, but there was something very resolute in the way Onmund handled himself. His presence was imposing, almost. Perhaps it was because he was a Nord and therefore had a very different physical appearance compared to most of his magical community. Instead of lean, narrow muscles and a more delicate form, he was tall and broad shouldered. And – from what she had seen of him back in Winterhold, he had an impressive musculature that she quite appreciated. Not that she would ever tell him that, of course.

He didn't need to know that she was eyeing his figure as he ended his spell, or that her eyes lingered just a little too long on his rear, or that she was currently wondering what he looked like beneath his sweeping College robes. When he turned to her and sent her a crooked, proud grin, clearly pleased with his growing aptitude for casting, her heart rattled a bit in her chest. No – he certainly did not need to know _any_ of that. Talos.

"After you, Lady Dragonborn," he gallantly said, gesturing to the door of the small building with a wave of his hand.

Rannve wrinkled her nose at him, forcefully pushed those wayward thoughts out of her mind, and complained, "Please don't call me that. Both Balgruff _and_ Ulfric insist on using my full title whenever they're around me and I loathe it."

He blinked, a little surprised at the casual mention of two of Skyrim's Jarls (one of them who happened to be at the very center of the rebel uprising and quite powerful), and couldn't help but wonder, "You're on first name basis with them?"

Rannve just grunted as she walked past him and muttered, "Unfortunately."

As she stepped towards the building, he hummed. "What's Ulfric like? Does he really look like a bear?"

She gave him a wry glance, paused, and sarcastically responded, "He's certainly partial to outfitting his generals in the trappings of their _skin,_ if nothing else." Then, scoffing arrogantly, she added, _"He's_ not very impressive, though. He's a total bore, especially when he's trying to influence me."

Oh, she had quite a few things to say about the manner in which he often tried to do _that_. She frowned at the thought of the Dragon Tongue bouquets he always seemed to have prepared for her whenever she visited Windhelm. No matter if she intended on going to the Palace of Kings or not, they would always appear on the doorstep of Hjerim Manor rain or shine, usually with a small note inviting her to come and see him for a meal or a warm drink. She never took him up on the offer, but it never seemed to sway him. Not that she was surprised.

The future High King would need a queen to rule beside him, and if that queen just happened to be the prophesized Last Dragonborn, then all the better. They would rule with an iron fist, and he would surreptitiously possess all the power in Skyrim in one fell blow – or, at least, that was what Rannve imagined were the reasons for his designs on her. It didn't exactly take a genius to unravel his plans, not that she had any intention of playing into them.

There must have been something in her voice that piqued his curiosity, some bitter twist of emotion that gave him some idea into what she was alluding to, because Onmund frowned too and said, "Does he try to court you?"

The blunt question made her raise an eyebrow at him. She wouldn't admit it for the world, but Talos, she had never seen jealousy look so attractive. Not that Onmund was terribly jealous, mind you, but there was definitely some sort of possessive quality to his voice that made her chest feel warm.

She caught his eye with a dry look and drawled, "He tries to."

Onmund frowned deeper and muttered, "I can't really imagine that."

It was true. Ulfric Stormcloak had quite the reputation across Skyrim, but it certainly wasn't genteel. Though he had never seen the man in person and had little idea as to what he looked like outside of stories, he couldn't picture the Jarl bending over backward to woo a lady with flowers or dinner. In fact, the very notion was almost amusing to him. And – not amusing at all.

Of course Rannve would have dozens of suitors. It wasn't like he had never considered this before. It was just that he had never really thought how well-bred said suitors might have been. Ulfric's particular heritage aside, he was still a Jarl, and Onmund was just…well, nothing really, in the grand scheme of things. He certainly wouldn't be remembered in history tomes. Not like Rannve and Ulfric would be. Just _thinking_ about their names written down together on some page in a book that wasn't yet penned made him want to cringe.

Rannve wanted to cringe, too. Her expression morphed into one of disgust when she said, "Yes, well. It's better not to imagine it. I certainly try not to."

He felt slightly better at her clear indifference, so he curiously asked, "How many men usually try to court the great Dragonborn?" and made sure to make it a far more generalized question, because he was just a little interested in how many men there happened to be – and whether or not he was playing right into the same exact archetype that she had experienced many times over. He really hoped not.

Rannve peered at him, studying his face closely. The intentions behind his question were fairly obvious. He didn't seem to be trying to mask them at all. Normally she would scoff at such an inquiry or ignore it outright, but normally, she wasn't asked such a thing from _Onmund,_ and therein lay the difference.

With a shrug, she replied, "Far too many. It must be my fame, because it certainly isn't my enchanting personality." She smirked and watched his face morph into an expression of amusement.

"Oh I don't know," he murmured, catching her eye with a look that frankly made her heart splutter. He smiled her favorite crooked smile and said, "You've definitely enchanted _me."_

In total horror, she felt her cheeks warm. The things he said! Months ago, he would have reduced himself to a blushing, bumbling fool had he ever told her such a thing. Yet now, with his newfound confidence, Onmund said the words as smoothly as any bard, and looked at her with eyes that shone knowingly. What, exactly, he knew remained a mystery – one that she had absolutely no interest in. No interest _at all._ (Talos, if she could only hammer it into her heart with the same stubbornness as she did her mind.)

Mouth flapping ineptly, Rannve gaped at him in surprise, searching for some hint of his embarrassment at having uttered such words, but there was none to be found within the contours of his face. There was only that crooked smile she liked so much and those gleaming eyes, which quietly spoke of his affection for her in ways that words alone could never articulate.

He watched her with barely contained amusement, wondering just how far he'd have to push to get her to admit that she felt something for him. At this point, it was fairly obvious to him that she was trying to hide the brunt of her emotions – and failing spectacularly, at that. It was endearing in a way that was rather unlike her, considering her usually brash manner. It was also endlessly captivating.

He might not have been a Jarl who could offer her a throne, or a nobleman who could give her wealth, or even a warrior, who could fight alongside her with the same grace that she had, but…well, he _could_ offer her something that he was quite sure no one else in Tamriel could give: the promise of a love that was only growing deeper every single day. And with each fluttering blush that he was awarded, he began to think that she might not be so averse to such a thing after all.


	32. Ignite

**A/N: In which they discover Sinderion's laboratory, and have a brief alchemical detour...**

 **I'll admit, I wrote this chapter because I miss writing Legerdemain. I'm thinking of adding Quintus into this story later down the line - maybe for a little cameo? We'll see!**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty Two | Ignite**

The small building near the gates of Blackreach was something of a surprise to them when they finally stepped inside of it. Upon first glance, it appeared to be little more than a storage space of sorts, though its original use was clearly more extravagant.

It was, perhaps, a gatekeeper or a diplomat's residence, for there was a small bed on one end of the room, carved from stone as was traditional in Dwemer cities. Opposite the door was a hearth and an old, rusty cooking pot that likely hadn't been used in centuries, and on the other end of the room spanned a long stone table of sorts that seemed to be carved right from the wall itself. Littered on its surface were all manners of alchemical devices, ranging from alembics and a distilling station to various remnants of herbs that looked about ready to disintegrate. It wasn't until they had both stepped inside that they also saw the skeleton laying on the floor at the foot of the bed, with bones so old and brittle that they blended almost seamlessly into the grey stone floor.

When they did see it, Onmund stepped back quickly in surprise, and Rannve gave him an amused look. His cautious expression reminded her vividly of Saarthal, when Tolfdir had guided them into the ancient resting place of their Nord ancestors. Onmund hadn't much liked the thought of disturbing a Nordic burial site, and he had a similarly distasteful look in his eyes now. Oh, but her mage was far too honorable for her line of work, she thought with a laugh.

"Looks like someone discovered this place long before we did. A couple hundred years, probably," she added breezily, barely casting the skeleton a glance as she turned to study the other aspects of the room.

Onmund stared at her, not appreciating her ability to brush off every situation like it was nothing, and spluttered, "Aren't you the least bit worried that we're disrupting someone's grave? We should get out of here before – "

"Before what?" she cut in with a smirk. "Before his ghost comes to scold us for trotting over his bones?" She chuckled at his indignant expression and said, "Oh stop fussing, Onmund. If I was him, I'd be happy to finally have some company."

He rolled his eyes at her and snarked, "You never take anything seriously."

It was true, he thought with some degree of frustration. She hadn't taken the College seriously at all, or Urag, or even the Arch-Mage. She barely even treated her own prophecy with the solemnity that it required. And don't even get him started on her feelings. Onmund was quite sure that if she had her way, she would never acknowledge that she had any to begin with, least not for him. Well. He'd do his utmost to change _that_.

He snorted quietly and reached for a nearby journal just to give him something to distract himself with. As he blindly opened it, Rannve shrugged and callously responded, "I take plenty of things seriously." He glanced at her over the cover of the journal, raising his eyebrow in challenging, and she lifted her chin and arrogantly said, "Not everyone would delve this far underground just to find information on how to defeat Alduin himself. I'd say that's _very_ serious."

He huffed and deemed not to respond, instead focusing on the journal he was holding. It was an ancient thing. The pages were yellow with age and if he pressed down too hard on them, the paper crumbled. After flipping one of the pages a little too hard and nearly tearing it out in the process, he exercised a little more care as he curiously read the account that was presumably written by the skeleton, way back when he had fingers to write _with_. And – the more he read, the more amazed he became, until he was a spluttering mess in the center of the room.

Rannve glanced over at him with a confused expression and asked, "What's gotten you into a frenzy?" She experimentally poked what looked like a dried mushroom and watched it turn to powder from the jab.

Onmund just turned to her with shining, eager eyes, pointed at the skeleton, and exclaimed, "This is _Sinderion!"_

Not following at all, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at the pile of bones with a blank expression. Onmund sent her a shocked look.

"Sinderion? You know, one of the most famous alchemists during the Third Era? His research on Nirnroot was _exponential_ to the study of alchemy. Some might even say that he altered the entire discipline!" When Rannve merely blinked at him, Onmund sighed and muttered, "How do you not know who Sinderion was?"

Her response was a breezy, "Alchemy is boring. Why should I care about some old man who obsessed over roots? I've got more important things to do."

He gaped at her and exclaimed, "Excuse you! Without alchemy, we wouldn't have health potions or magicka potions, which means we'd probably be dead by now."

She only laughed at him and arrogantly responded, "Please. There's only one creature alive who could kill me, and he's the one I'm hunting."

She knew she was exaggerating – she was mortal, after all – but she quite enjoyed watching Onmund get all riled up on her. It was amusing and endearing.

Onmund gave her an unimpressed glower before turning back to the journal, muttering about arrogant Dragonborns. Amused, Rannve allowed him his moment and continued looking around the room, trying to see if there was anything salvageable in this ancient dwelling that they might find useful. Unfortunately, though, there were only alchemical odds and ends. One thing did catch her attention, but only because it wasn't like anything she'd ever seen before.

Having traversed much of Skyrim, Rannve was quite familiar with the native fauna and plants that grew in all regions of the country. She'd seen plenty of nirnroot. They had a tendency of springing up wherever there was water to be found, and she had come across many of them on her adventures up and down the coasts and rivers. She'd never seen one of this coloring, though.

Curious, she leaned over it, resting her forearms on top of the stone table with a intrigued expression. She reached out to brush her finger over one of the leaves. Perhaps it was because it was potted in soil and not plucked and left to rot on a tabletop for hundreds of years, but this plant was still alive. Granted, it barely clung to life, but it wasn't nearly as dried up or decimated as its companions.

"What's that?" Onmund wondered, slipping the book shut and deciding to take it with him to read later on. He knew that Rannve was waiting for him and that it probably wasn't safe to linger as they were. He glanced over at her figure, which was slightly bent as she studied something on the table, and stepped up behind her.

Onmund wasn't well-versed in alchemy. The topic fascinated him, but he was far more interested in cultivating his magic over learning the precise science that the alchemical discipline required. However, he did know a few things about it (seemingly more than Rannve, it appeared), and when he saw the crimson nirnroot on the tabletop, his jaw dropped in surprise.

"Is that a nirnroot?" he found himself asking, and crowded closer, barely even realizing that he was directly behind her until she looked over her shoulder and bumped into him slightly.

He blushed just a little at this but didn't move away. Instead, much to Rannve's apparent surprise, he leaned closer, ducking his chin over her shoulder and peering at the nirnroot. He had to admit that his actions were just shy of ungentlemanly. If he moved any closer, his hips would be pressed against her rear, but – well, he couldn't help himself. He breathed in the familiar scent of pine and secretly enjoyed the way he could just barely see a blush curving over her cheeks. It was definitely worth it.

Rannve swallowed tightly at his sudden proximity and haltingly said, "Um…I think so."

Her heart was hammering in her chest and she seemed to forget how to use her voice properly, because when she spoke, her words held a shard of breathlessness that utterly mortified her. She didn't see him because she was adamantly staring at the nirnroot, but Onmund's reaction was quite the opposite.

He grinned crookedly at the breathless hint of her voice and lowly murmured, "This must have been what brought Sinderion here to begin with. He's known for his work with nirnroot, after all."

The low pitch of his voice was, admittedly, done on purpose – but who could blame him? The sight of Rannve trying to suppress her shivers was addicting.

She cleared her throat and muttered, "Was he?" as if she had entirely forgotten the conversation that they had only just had, when Onmund had informed her of the reason for Sinderion's fame.

He hid a smile, closing his eyes briefly as her hair gently brushed against his cheek, and whispered, "Yes…he was."

Suddenly Rannve wondered what they were even talking about. She felt like they had somehow grazed over to another topic entirely without her knowing. She swallowed again, knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the stone table. Talos, she felt like she was about to combust from the heat that was curdling inside of her! Where on earth had her bumbling mage gone off to? In his place was a man with bewitching charisma and the most sinful voice she'd ever heard.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she inhaled carefully and asked, "…Should we take a sample back to the surface with us?"

Onmund accidentally hummed in her ear (alright fine, it was purposeful), trying to resist the urge to kiss down her neck and watch her ignite into more of those delectable shivers. Because of the sheer strength of his desire, it took him a moment to make sense of her question. When he did, he chuckled, "Who would we take it to? Only an experienced alchemist would know what to do with it."

Rannve bit down on her cheek even at the sound of his quiet laugh. Talos take her – if his voice was currently reducing her to a smoldering ember, then his laugh would set the whole of her on fire!

Utterly at war with herself and the sudden desire to turn in his arms and kiss him, Rannve deliberately said, "I know an alchemist in Windhelm who might be of use. He's apparently very good."

Onmund hummed again, all low and sinful, and pursed his lips to wrangle his grin from his face. Rannve could pretend to be aloof and detached all she liked, but he could see right through her. It wasn't making things any easier for him, but he restrained himself as best he could and calmly pulled away from her, watching her heave out in relief with eyes that twinkled with amusement.

Oh, she'd be so angry with him if she knew he was doing this on purpose – but really, if only she'd admit that she liked him as much as he liked her, they wouldn't be in this predicament!

"Well then, I suppose we might as well do a service to the alchemical world while we're at it," Onmund said, and promptly shooed her out of the way so that he could unearth the crimson nirnroot from its bronze container. He didn't necessarily have to place his hand on her waist to move her out of the way, but…well, Rannve didn't appear to be catching onto his actions, so he figured he might as well push at her boundaries as much as he possibly could.

She didn't seem to be at all aware of what he was trying to do, though it was fairly clear that she was affected by him nonetheless. She didn't linger while he carefully wrapped the roots of the plant with a bit of fabric to protect them while traveling. Instead, Rannve hastily stepped out of the small room as soon as possible to wait for him on the stone stairs, breathing in deeply and trying to get her heart under control. She didn't think she could be in that room another moment – it suddenly felt like it was even tinier than it truly was, and Onmund seemed to take up the majority of it.

She wondered when _that_ had happened. She'd never felt such a stark need to be near someone before, and Onmund wasn't the usual type that cultivated her interest, so what was _wrong_ with her?

All she knew was that the moment they got what they came for and left Blackreach behind them, she would be absolutely _relieved_ …or so she thought, in any case, in that particular moment as her heart beat rapidly against her chest and her wayward thoughts recalled the low timber of his voice in her ear. Unfortunately for her, however, the relief that she yearned for would only be found in the very direction she was unwittingly rejecting with every stubborn, prideful part of her that existed.


	33. Slow Time

**A/N: In which Rannve wonders...**

 **Hope you all enjoy :) Next update will be within the next few days**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty Three | Slow Time**

Rannve's self-imposed ignorance of her own heart was a continued source of bafflement for Onmund. When he stepped out of Sinderion's laboratory and joined her on the stone steps, she seemed to have gained some semblance of control over herself, for she was back to her usual self in no time at all. A part of him admired her ability to bounce back. The other part, the stronger one, was frustrated by it. He didn't let his frustration show, though. This wasn't something that could be rushed, and he had more patience than the average Nord. Certainly more than Rannve.

It seemed that besides battling with her feelings, she was also battling with the two contrasting desires of exploring Blackreach and getting out of it as fast as she could. He wasn't sure if she wanted to leave this place because of him or simply because she had suddenly gained an eagerness to finish her ongoing hunt of Alduin, but he suspected it was the former. After all, he couldn't imagine that she was so impatient to have a meet and greet with death, which was at least one potential outcome of her prophesized battle with the World-Eater.

The thought of her wanting to run away from him galled him, and yet he knew that that was only the surface of it all. He was a very observant sort of man, and he had the distinct impression that she what she was really trying to run away from was love itself, and all the bittersweet emotions that went with it. So really, when it all boiled down to it, he tried not to let himself get so upset over it, because why would she try to run from him if she wasn't feeling the very same thing that he did, whenever he looked upon her? The situation was circular; it brought disappointment and joy in equal measure.

In any case, the depths of Blackreach was probably not the best place to ponder such things. Though the place appeared quite peaceful upon first glance, danger, it seemed, still had a tendency of catching them off guard.

They were walking down the bronze road when they suddenly caught sight of a creature that looked oddly familiar, in that it was also found above ground as well. The sight of it was so alarmingly out of place that they both stopped right there in the center of the road and gaped at it.

"Is that a _giant?"_ Onmund hissed, at least having the forethought to keep his voice down. What was a giant doing down here? It was probably the last thing either of them expected to see in the heart of Blackreach.

Their baffled expressions quickly dulled when the giant stopped and scratched his head, looking around as if he was aware of their presence. That was about the time when they realized that it was probably best to make themselves scarce. Fighting a giant was not on the agenda for today, and Rannve had a feeling that doing so would attract a whole lot of unwanted attention from whatever else lurked in the blackness of this great cavernous hall.

Before she knew what was happening, Onmund was reaching forward, grabbing her hand and pulling her off the road and into the shadows. His hold was firm and unexpected. She couldn't claim to have ever been in such a predicament before – both running from a giant in a Dwemer city as well as having Onmund take her hand and guide her forward of his own accord. And even though she knew better, the latter of the two was what she really focused on.

Her fingers closed around his as they melded into the shadows, disappearing just as completely as ever into the folds of the darkness. Then, crouching down behind a couple of rocks several meters from the road, they watched the giant begin to meander down the path, apparently deciding that he was just imagining things.

It was such a strange sight that Rannve hardly even noticed how her hand was still in his and that he had pulled their entwined fingers to rest on top of his thigh as they crouched over the ground. When she did realize it, she pulled her hand from his as if burned, thankful for the darkness that hid her flushed skin, and tried to ignore him to the best of her ability. It went well enough for a few minutes as the giant disappeared around the bend they had just come, but when they stepped back onto the road, she knew that ignoring Onmund was out of the question.

Besides the fact that he was just impossible to ignore anyhow, with his strangely compelling nature, Rannve wasn't about to let her own ignorance spell out their end. They were, after all, in Blackreach, and if the legends about this place was true, it was near to crawling with all manners of dangers that neither of them had faced before.

A large part of her wanted to just barge through this place and let the danger come. She was a warrior and she had fought dragons before – ha, it was practically a hobby by now. Yet with Onmund by her side, she figured that it was safer and wiser to take the quieter approach. Maneuvering around enemies instead of openly engaging them was most likely the better option, and perhaps faster too.

They studied the other end of the path where the giant had gone to make sure that he hadn't decided to come back this way, and then Rannve silently gestured for Onmund to follow. Together, they began to walk once more in what would have been a companionable silence, if Rannve's heart didn't keep wanting to make her suffer with reluctant feelings for said companion.

To be fair, she couldn't really say why she was so reluctant to tell Onmund how she felt. There were surely a multitude of reasons, the first and foremost being that she had a destiny to fulfill and it was very likely that it would bring about her own end. Her moral compass didn't always point due north, but she wasn't sure it would be right to get involved with someone on that level at this point. What would she say when the time came to fight Alduin?

 _Oh hey honey, I'm just gonna step out for a little bit to go try killing the oldest dragon in existence, who just so happens to be resurrecting a ton of other dragons to fight for his cause, who also plans on eating the world as a snack. Oh and I might die. Love you bye!_

…Yeah, that didn't sound very compelling.

It was far easier to pretend that she didn't feel anything for Onmund, because if she did die on her quest to kill the oldest and most powerful dragon to ever roam the skies, at least he wouldn't have to mourn her. That was called mercy, wasn't it? She didn't often deal with such benevolent kindnesses, so she wasn't entirely sure, but it definitely sounded like it.

And besides – she had no interest in love! She was much too busy for it, and she rather liked being a lone hero in a world full of people in need! She didn't require a sick kick or a lover – much less a husband. She had everything she needed already. Houses, gold, treasure the likes of which would keep her wealthy long after she was dead (in whatever way she went). People respected her and looked up to her. Sure, she wasn't a great hero like Ysgramor or Ulfgar the Unending, but people still trusted her enough to save them when it really mattered. She didn't mind the attention. She quite enjoyed being famous. Why would she need someone to share her life with? They would only get in her way.

They walked for some hours in the same quiet, contemplative manner. Blackreach was much bigger than it appeared on the stone stairs by the gates. She was beginning to realize that she'd been too optimistic when they had first stood above the place and looked down into its vastness. From that viewpoint, everything had seemed small, but now that they were walking through the thick of it, she found that it was more of a maze than it initially appeared.

The road they were traveling was a winding thing that seemed to lack direction. It traveled around hulking rock rather then through it, and seemed to follow the path of nature rather than adhering to the usual Dwemer tendency of forging against it. The Tower of Mzark loomed in the distance, its vaulting walls distinguishable even in the darkness, and it seemed to get further away with every step they took.

She was beginning to feel exhausted from the day. It seemed like an age since they had entered this place – perhaps it was, there was truly no way of knowing. Time itself seemed to stand still here, as if manipulated by some otherworldly force. For all she knew, they could have been walking for several days straight.

She knew she probably looked as tired as she felt and Onmund was no different. His eyes were drooping from lack of sleep and the meager meal they'd had only recently hadn't seemed to revitalize him. She knew better than to blaze ahead in this unknown place in such a state, but – she was impatient to reach the tower. Still, it was past time to take some rest.

The problem was, where? After seeing the giant ambling over the road earlier that day (or was it yesterday? She didn't know), Rannve had a bad feeling about making camp so close to the road. They'd been fairly lucky at not having any further run-ins with potential enemies, but that luck couldn't possibly hold for much longer. She wasn't very keen on testing it by camping out too close to the main path, but neither did she want to venture too far off of it lest they lose it.

With a sigh, Rannve caught Onmund's arm and said, "We need to find a place to sleep."

He blinked at her as though if didn't grasp what she was saying, and she knew that he was even more exhausted than she was. Especially when, after a moment, he sluggishly murmured, "Yeah…that sounds good."

He looked like he might fall asleep at any moment. How had she not noticed that before now? Why hadn't he spoken up about it? Had she really been so adamant about ignoring her own wayward heart that she also ended up ignoring him to such a degree? She felt a shard of guilt pass through her. Onmund was too good to complain, but sometimes it was what she needed to hear. She knew her own faults well enough, though she tried her best to ignore those, too.

She studied him for a long moment, taking in the sleepy eyes and haphazard countenance, and sighed, "Come. Let's head off the trail for a bit and find somewhere that's relatively safe to bunker down for a few hours."

He only nodded, and – she didn't know why she did it, exactly. She didn't really need to. Onmund was strong, far stronger than she had imagined when she'd first met him at the College. Maybe it was the guilt that prickled at her for not noticed how exhausted he was at the pace she had set, or maybe it was something else – some desire to offer him assistance in whatever way she could. Whichever, Rannve looped her arm around him, curving her fingers around his bicep as she led him down from the path. The touch didn't go unnoticed, of course, but to be honest, Onmund was too exhausted to really pay much attention to it.

Her proximity was welcomed, if not necessarily needed, as they walked off the path and into the darkness. They did not know, of course, that their direction was to be a mistake that both would regret, but –

Well. That is a tale for another time.


	34. Become Ethereal

**A/N: In which another unexpected moment is had, and Onmund's suspicions become clearer.**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty Four | Become Ethereal**

They slept for hours. In the beginning, Rannve had stayed awake to keep watch, but she ended up nodding off about two hours into her silent vigil. They were both exhausted. It was a weariness that went bone-deep, and when she opened her eyes again, she felt as though she was a different person.

Onmund was still asleep when she rolled over and sat up. When she glanced over to where he lay in his bedroll, several meters from her, his breathing was deep and unhurried. She could just make out the outline of him through the darkness. To be honest, she was starting to truly loathe said darkness.

What she wouldn't give to see the sun again! To feel the breeze push at her face and thread into her hair. It was strange, how strong the yearning was. She always had an appreciation for nature, but she was never overly taken by what it offered until she found herself immersed in this dark world that lacked those very same offerings.

With a sigh, she began shaking Onmund awake. Even though he clearly needed the rest, they didn't have the luxury of lingering for too long in one place, and she had no way of knowing how long they'd already been in this spot.

With a groan that frankly sounded far more heady than she'd expected, Onmund reached up to rub his eyes and mumbled, "I finished that assignment…a week ago…"

She raised an eyebrow at him – not that he saw – and rocked back on her heels. The darkness was too complete to see his face cleary. Now that they were off the path, it seemed as though the pitch black shadows had closed in on them from all sides, and not even the glistening light of the huge mushrooms overhead could breach it. It was a shame, because she would've liked to see his expression clouded over with sleep. She bet he looked _quite_ good.

"What assignment?" she sarcastically wondered, amused at the apparent tendency he had of talking in his sleep. He was clearly out of it still, half conscious and lingering in a dream.

He sighed and mumbled, "You know…the flying stars and how they…fell to earth…"

Rannve's expression turned slightly confused. "Flying stars? What are you on about, Onmund?"

He groaned again and rolled onto his side, muttering, "Stars," under his breath as he snuggled his face against Rannve's thigh. She stilled, breathing shallowly as she stared down at what she could see of him, and swallowed tightly. He stilled too, because he seemed to be waking up.

Something in his mind must have registered – some spark of reality washing over him – because the next moment he was exclaiming, "Talos! Sorry – erm…that was your leg, right? It felt like your leg."

She watched him scramble back, apologizing boyishly as he went, and wished once again that she could see his face and study the blush that was no doubt weaving over his cheeks. Of course, it was probably just as well that it was so dark, if only to keep _him_ from seeing the very same blush on her own face.

Clearing her throat in a rather awkward way, Rannve murmured, just to change the subject, "You were talking in your sleep about missing an assignment."

He paused, pushed a hand through his hair, and responded, "Ah…was I? I guess I've been away from the College too long."

She quirked a smile and said, "You seemed rather upset about it."

He scoffed. "You're the only student who _wouldn't_ be upset about missing an assignment." Then, rolling his eyes as he tried to push the previous situation from his thoughts (it wasn't easy), he sat up straighter and wondered, "I suppose we should get moving?"

She grunted, and he took that to mean, 'yes'. So together, the packed up their makeshift camp and headed on their way again.

They walked for a few hours until they reached a shaky little bridge that crossed the length of a wide waterway. This area was lit up a bit better, and the underground lake twinkled faintly from the luminescent mushrooms and shining crystals far above, lending it a rather ethereal glow that looked just as otherworldly as everything else they've seen since entering this place. It was rather lovely, but Rannve wondered what lurked beneath its surface. The water was opaque and full of minerals, and impossible to see past a foot or so into its depths. Though the bridge, if one could even call it that, appeared shaky at best, Rannve thought it safer to make use of it rather than to take any chances at fording the lake on foot.

She was about to test out the wood to see if it was well and truly rotted when Onmund gently stepped in front of her, saying, "Let me."

She didn't argue, though she did give him a strange look as if she was wondering why he was suddenly deciding to act the gentleman. Not that Onmund _wasn't_ one, but she wasn't used to him going out of way in a potentially dangerous situation.

In the grey light, she watched him carefully step onto the first plank of wood. He spread his weight over it before lifting his other foot, and rocked a bit to see if the whole thing was about to collapse. When it didn't, he moved to the second plank. Then, when that also appeared safe, he turned back to her and reached out a hand.

Her first response was to stare at the outstretched fingers with a bewildered expression. Her second was a huff when Onmund impatiently said, "You really need to learn how to accept help, Rannve. You're terrible at it."

"I am not," she immediately refuted, and clasped her hand with his as if trying to prove her words.

He just chuckled – a sound that she was beginning to think would be her downfall – and lightly retorted, "You are."

Rolling her eyes, she grappled with Onmund's hand as she joined him on the bridge, allowing him to pull her into place beside him. They began to carefully maneuver over the wood, inching across it in case some part of it fell away. There was no telling how old the walkway was, but it definitely seemed to be fairly decrepit.

They managed to get three quarters of the way across when the plank Rannve was standing on suddenly gave way and she let out a gasp as it shifted beneath her. Onmund, still clutching her hand, immediately swung around to grasp at her waist and drag her closer to him just as the wood gave way entirely, falling with a loud splash into the water several feet below. The force of his pull was a little enthusiastic – this time, it _was_ an accident – and he ended up tugging her right into his arms without fully meaning to.

Course, once she was there, he didn't really have it in him to complain. A small blush did overtake his cheeks, but the sight of Rannve's wide-eyed expression was totally worth it.

"Er…sorry," he muttered, his voice barely audible as he stared down at her. She was inches away from him, so close that he could feel her breath on his jaw. Had it been brighter, he might've even been close enough to count her eyelashes and see if her silvery eyes had any other colors flecked into them.

It was invigorating, having her so close. His heart hammered at him, blood pumping through him wildly as the scent of pine invaded his senses. He could inhale that scent for eternity and never grow tired of it. She was utterly captivating, especially when her eyes darkened with the very same emotion that he had been trying to catch sight of for days now.

His tongue darted out over his bottom lip. It was a subconscious reaction to her, unplanned and unnoticed – until her eyes swept down to linger on his mouth, and that addicting emotion growing within the confinement of her gaze began to spread over the entirety of her expression.

Longing.

It nearly overmastered him. He was seconds away from ducking down and taking her lips with his. Moments from gathering her into his arms and embracing her the way he yearned to, without the reservations he'd been battling with for so long. He wanted to bend her body against his, feel the warmth of her skin pressed up against him, and show her exactly how deep his feelings for her really went. In that moment, he rather thought said feelings were endless and relentless all at once – a bracing combination that swept through him like a wave.

Rannve was having a similar struggle that was not quite as internalized as she was hoping it was, for Onmund could see it plain as day across her face. He said nothing though, and just watched as she warred with herself. He didn't make any move to remove his hands, but it didn't matter. After a long moment, she stepped away from him and he heaved out a breath that was both disappointed as well as relieved.

He just felt so…delirious around her. He was a level-headed sort of man, reserved in his actions and his words, and he liked that about himself. Whenever it came to Rannve, though, he felt as though every last bit of his stability had floated away, abandoning his logical mind just as surely as the wind pressing against a cloud. It was almost amusing, then, how very sure he felt whenever she was near. It was just contradicting enough to go to his head and leave him baffled and amazed.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" Rannve breathed. Her voice was a shard of the emotion she had tried too hard to push away, and it made shivers erupt over his entire body. He stared at her for a long moment with eyes darkened from his silent yearning. The stare seemed to shake her. He wasn't making any attempt at hiding his longing for her like she had. His eyes were frank and earnest, and it was clearly affecting her. He rather liked watching the shockwaves of it rattle through her expression.

After a beat of silence, Onmund silently offered his hand to her again, wondering if she would take it. He half expected her to refuse him altogether, as she was wont to do, but to his immense surprise and pleasure she did not. Her eyes darted up to his quickly, searching his gaze. Whatever she was looking for, he didn't know, but after studying him for a moment, Rannve returned her hand to his keeping, and he felt something in his chest warm at the way she tightened her fingers around his.

It was something that felt strangely like trust, combined with a generous heaping of what could only be desire, for he felt it pulse through him with a thrill of heat that could only come from one thing.

He couldn't say why he wanted her so badly. She was impatient and arrogant and had a whole slew of other traits that he didn't usually find appealing. He preferred quieter people who were more thoughtful, like him. People who appreciated the small things in life. The tiny miracles that occurred daily, in forgetful ways.

But Rannve – she was an unexpected addition to his life that made his heart glow with things he had never felt before. None of those quiet people had ever sparked such passion inside of him. And, what's more, it seemed as if Rannve wasn't even trying most of the time. It just…happened. He just reacted to her, unfurling in a way that he had never experienced.

It was utterly consuming.

"Come on, we're almost to the other side," he murmured to her, turning back to glance just once over his shoulder and send her a small smile.

And it was a little bit funny, really, how they both hoped that they would never reach the rocky shore ahead of them, if only to have the excuse of entwining their fingers together in such a strangely intimate fashion.


	35. Frenzy

**A/N: In which Rannve and Onmund get into a spot of trouble, which leads to a moment that Rannve is not expecting.**

 **I know I've made you all wait a long time for this. I hope you all enjoy ;)**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty Five | Frenzy**

They ended up walking for another day in the direction of the Tower of Mzark, which they could see in the distance as it rose up over the glowing mushrooms and derelict buildings. The fact that the tower was so enormous was really the only thing Rannve was thankful for, right about now. She had no doubt that they would be completely lost otherwise. Her sense of direction was all skewed in this dark cavern, where the stars did not shine and the sun could not reach. She felt blinder the longer they spent here, and more aggravated when it appeared that they were hardly making any progress at all. It almost seemed as if the more they walked, the further off the tower was, as if the magic of this place was going to her head.

Rannve was getting aggravated, and when she was aggravated, it meant that she was impatient. Not a good combination, really, because when she was impatient, she did reckless things that she usually regretted.

Besides the frustration of being stuck in this cavern, which was steadily getting more and more dismal and losing its enchanting appearance every hour, they were also running low on supplies. She'd been careful to ration their food throughout the journey, but there was only so much rationing one could do before it all disappeared, and they were getting dangerously close.

She was also tired. Dreadfully tired. It seemed that the more they walked, the more exhausted she became, and it hardly mattered how much sleep they were able to get in between the legs of their journey. She wasn't sure if it was Blackreach itself or an exhaustion born from some internal place within her that made her long for pillows and blankets and a real bed, but it was a potent yearning that crashed through her every time she unrolled her bedroll onto the cold, hard ground. And it was bad. It was bad because the more tired she became, the more she began entertaining certains…thoughts. Thoughts that she had been trying to push away for weeks now.

They were warward things, almost sinister in their complexity and in the way they sprouted up out of nowhere. They came to her at the most inopportune moments. When they sat down to eat and her eyes would drift to Onmund's mouth while he spoke about the things they had seen that day, all she could think about was how his lips might feel against hers. When they made camp for a few hours of sleep, she wondered about the feel of his chest against her back, his arm tight about her waist, his breath spinning sleepily against her neck. She thought about his eyes, the crysal blue of them, which reminded her of sunlit icicles. She thought about how piercing they were, sometimes, and how they might look when they were half-lidded and darkened from desire.

She thought about desire, too, when she was too tired to ignore the snippets of daydreams that plagued her. How how he'd look splayed out beneath her, arching into her body. His face a blushing mess, his eyes bright with want, his hands gripping her hips tightly, and his hips – Gods, they would roil into her from below, spluttering but fervent –

"Rannve? Are you feeling alright?"

She shook her head so thoroughly that Onmund thought she might sprain her neck, and he watched curiously as she cleared her throat and looked away from him, pressing a smile into the folds of his robes. She'd been looking at him again, like she wanted to devour him. She had been doing that quite a lot lately. Despite his own exhaustion, he would have been blind not to notice.

"You look a little sick, is all," he offered, stretching out his arms over his head as he blinked over at her. He grinned crookedly in a friendly manner, though his eyes blazed knowingly at her from beneath his lids. Oh, he wouldn't tell her that he suspected he knew what she was thinking about, but neither could he deny the giddy feelings in his chest whenever she got caught.

Rubbing her cheek, Rannve muttered, "Fine. I'm fine."

He hummed lowly and siddled closer to her, lifting a hand to touch her shoulder as he mused, "You face is red. Are you sure? If you're in pain, I can summon a healing – "

"No, no healing spells," she adamantly cut in before he could finish, and Onmund bit back a smile. He remembered all too well how she'd responded to his Restoration magic before. He thought he knew what was going on, at least in hindsight. At the time, he'd been as bewildered as ever, but…well.

He'd do anything to see that look on her face again. The messy desire strewn over the contours of her expression. The wild way she'd blinked at him, as if she wanted to both jump into his arms and tumble away at the same time. It was endearing.

He chuckled and murmured, "Alright, Rannve."

Okay, so maybe he did drag her name out just a little, and maybe his voice was pitched low on purpose, and maybe he had done it with the express intention of seeing her shiver. He certainly wasn't disappointed. The look she sent him then was half frustrated, half alarmed, as if she wasn't sure what she felt or why she felt it, and the way she gripped the hilt of her sword in response was reward enough. She was clearly affected by him.

Rannve let out a sound from the back of her throat that sounded slightly exasperated. She pushed forward, focusing her attention on the path ahead and the tower in the distance and…and – Onmund surrounded by sheets, wrapped up in her arms, watching her kiss down his body with eyes that blazed a dark blue and a blush that he couldn't possibly tamper down, especially when –

"Rannve!" Onmund hissed, catching her elbow quite suddenly. The movement stopped her progress and forcibly doused her frustratingly vivid thoughts with a figurative bucket of cold water. The alarmed tone his voice took on further splintered through the fog of her own exhaustion when Rannve snapped her head up, only to find that she was staring right into the face of a sleeping Centurion. They were hardly ten feet away from it. The whirl of its machine cradle was constant, and even though the automaton had his head bowed to the floor in mechanical slumber, it felt as though he was staring right at them.

Her lips parted, body freezing up. It was a strange thing, to be so close to a dwarven automaton and yet not have it notice you. It was clearly still in working condition. Besides the noise of the machine pumping energy into its frame, little bursts of steam fluttered into the air every few seconds, almost as if they were the exhalations of a breath. Yet the glowing blue eyes remained closed, its metal eyelids shutting out the sight of its would-be enemies.

She shouldn't have been surprised to see it, really. Despite the fact that Blackreach was unlike any place she'd ever been inside of, it was still the product of Dwemer civilization. They'd stumbled across that dwarven sphere on their first day, so why not a Centurion too? It was just a little surprising that she hadn't noticed it before. She'd practically walked right into it with such hapless inelegance that she was shocked her usually sharp mind had not been aware of its presence until Onmund had to spell it out for her.

They stood there as if frozen, both staring at the Centurion. The fog began to return, biting at their minds as if trying to pull them back beneath the caressing lilt of exhaustion, and for some reason it seemed to Rannve that they did not need to move. That they were perfectly safe here, out in the open, ten feet away from an enemy who would surely decimate them in their current state, had it the sense to open its metallic eyes.

Nothing at all happened for nearly an entire minute. The seconds dragged them under, and it felt like an eternity of standing and staring, but there was no such thing as eternity for the Dragonborn. The only eternity she was destined for was the one that would immortalize her name in tavern songs.

Their luck, which was already so delicate and haphazard, shuddered out.

As if somehow aware that it was being stared at, the Centurion moved. Its limbs shifted minutely, metal plates scraping against the cradle that surrounded its form. Its head began to lift, eyelids fluttering open, and Rannve was mere moments from signing her life away when Onmund surprised her for a second time.

Before the automaton could become fully cognizant of the world around them, he was dragging her back, pushing her forcefully against a crevice in a nearby rock, and hurtling after her. The shadows were nearly complete – complete enough to hide their forms, it seemed, when the Centurion's eyes at last opened and glowed with blue awareness. Its head swiveled side to side, looking for whatever had disturbed its slumber, but evidently, it did not find the cause. It merely stood there as if lost, one step from the metal dome that held its frame, and only fifteen or so feet from the huddled forms of Rannve and Onmund.

She barely noticed him at first, so intent was she on watching the Centurion from over the jagged shoulder of rock that hid them. She was waiting for it to walk towards them, waiting to hear the thunderous noise of its footsteps as it hunted for whoever was witless enough to awake it. Her heart was thudding erratically in her chest, and she was so swept up in the Centurion's presence that she hardly seemed aware of Onmund at all.

That all changed, of course, when she felt him exhale slowly in relief, probably because they seemed to have evaded the Centurion. An errant thought hit her that he really shouldn't be so relieved yet – they weren't in the clear, just well hidden for now – but the moment his breath fluttered over her ear, her mind took a rather sudden turn.

Before that moment, she had not realized just how close they actually were. But time rarely lingered in the spaces of a moment, and soon, she became aware of several things that she had overlooked before.

He was pressed against her, diligently. His body was utterly flush with hers in his attempt to hide them from view. She could feel the soft cotton of his robes against her hands as she gripped the fabric at his chest – an action that she had not even realized she was doing until now. His heartbeat rattled through him beneath her fingertips, perfectly matching the shallow breaths that she felt against her ear and neck. His head was bowed over her, so close that if they turned just a little, they would find themselves in some cliché reenactment that came right out of a gooey, romantic novel. (Er…not that Rannve had _any_ interest in books like that of course - )

"Onmund – " she breathed, intent on telling him to move away a little because Talos, his proximity was doing strange things to her body. Dangerous things.

But he only shook his head and whispered, "Shhh…" in her ear.

He was right: they needed to be quiet else the Centurion become aware of their position in this cramped little alcove of rock. But by the Nine! The soft little hush of his breath made shivers spiral through her, and she was embarrassed to say that she trembled into him a little bit. She was even more embarrassed when the full force of her wayward daydreams came back with a vengeance.

All at once, she was imagining what his voice sounded like when it was swept up in a moan. The way his body might arch from her kisses. The way he might look with her head between his legs, eyes a molten blue and fingers fluttering everywhere, not knowing what to grasp as pleasure bloomed fiercely inside of him. Or – Talos, what it might be like to see him wrangle with some of that endearing confidence she knew he had. Perhaps he might use it on her, roll her into the mattress and show her exactly how talented his mouth was –

Her eyes suddenly careened into his, and the way Onmund was staring at her made her heart jump in her chest. It almost looked as though he knew exactly where her wayward mind had gone off to. There was a gleam of intelligence in his gaze that unnerved her. It made her grip his robes tighter, press her head into the jagged rock behind them, and inhale deeply. It made his eyes flash because there was something that looked like understanding in them, and along with it, a generous heaping of _reciprocation_.

Now _that_ was frightful. And by the Gods, it was so completely _enticing_ too.

"Onmund…" she whispered, so quietly that her voice was barely a shard of a sound, a little thing that held so _much_ within its subtle tones. Yearning, longing, the sheer need to move a bit closer, to just _give in._

Talos. She wanted to. So badly.

He swallowed thickly, stared at her for a long heavy moment in which the reverberating thuds of their hearts seemed to rise up above the alarm of the Centurion, who still stood only yards away from their hiding place, head swiveling and bronze fists clenching as steam billowed from its frame.

He stared at her eyes, at the rare, expressive quality of them. At the way he could see exactly where her thoughts lingered. At the desire that orchestrated an entire symphony in the gleaming silver gaze. He stared at her mouth, the way it was parted just so, the tremble of her lips just centimeters from his, the warm spin of her breath against his own mouth. He stared at her body, at the way she was subtly arching into him. At the thinly veiled language that he could read so clearly, for it was a language that only lovers knew.

And, Gods help him, he knew that it wasn't exactly the right time for this, but when _would_ it be the right time? She was always so adamant about brushing off her feelings for him and he knew, somehow, that he would never be this close to her again. It was, as they say, a once in a lifetime opportunity. Onmund never claimed to be overly ambitious, but he wasn't about to let this chance pass him by. So – in a rare display of confident boldness, he raised his hand to tilt her face up and edged closer, making absolutely no attempt at concealing his intentions.

He lingered for only a moment, staring at her with piercing eyes, waiting to see if she would deny him. He wasn't about to take something that wasn't freely given. That was not his way. And yet…

And yet, her eyes only flashed with more yearning, more of that addicting desire, and, well, he never claimed that he had much restraint, either. Not when it came to her. He leaned closer, until his lips brushed against hers, and – Rannve let out a breathy sigh and clutched him tighter, tipping her head back and kissing him so solidly that he felt his very heart tremble inside him.

It was like a floodgate within him had torn open. All at once he was pushing her up against the rock wall, tangling his hand into her hair and inhaling the scent of pine as though his life depended upon it. His mouth plied against hers, heady and fierce. This was not an awkward kiss exchanged between classes at the College, in the shadows of one of the pillars in the courtyard, more breathless from the fear of being caught than the desire to kiss in the first place. It wasn't like the sweet embraces he had shared with a local girl back home, the childhood sweetheart he had once imagined himself marrying, back when he had resigned himself to such a fate.

For the life of him, he couldn't remember her name right now. He couldn't remember anyone that had come before Rannve. He knew only her, tasted only her, until her name was spinning through his mind with every pass of her lips – lips that were not awkward at all, but wild and needy and raw and unforgiving about it. And they were not breathless because they were afraid of getting caught by errant professors – they were breathless because neither of them could fathom the sheer need that spiraled through them, intense and overpowering.

She clenched at him, raising one hand to tunnel itself into his hair, pushing his hood off in a fervor of desire. Her other hand quickly joined the first, and he had to hold back a breathy moan at the way she tugged at his hair. Her nails bit into his scalp but it didn't hurt. It only cemented in the reality of the moment.

He was kissing the Dragonborn. He was kissing _Rannve_.

And she was kissing him back with so much desire that he could barely even breathe.

He'd never been kissed like this before. He'd never been the object of so much passion. Never instigated such astounding ardor in another. And yet Rannve unfurled for him like he was suddenly the center of her universe, like he was the very thing she had searched for her entire life.

Gods above, he was helpless in the face of it all, and…he seemed to have no control over his actions any more.

Before he even knew what he was doing, his hands slid to her hips and he pulled her against him, grasping her rear with tight fingers and moaning breathlessly against her lips as he shifted his pelvis into hers. And though the armor that covered her form surely got in the way, the heady whimper that left Rannve's throat a moment later was consuming – as was the way she ground her hips into him before he could truly compose his wrought nerves from the sound she made.

 _This_ was what she'd been hiding from him. Suddenly he didn't blame her so very much for it. He doubted they would have made nearly as much progress on their journey had she not exercised some self-restraint. He would have given into her just as completely as he was now, and he wouldn't have tried to stop it at all.

"Rannve," he gasped quietly as she dragged his bottom lip between her teeth and _nipped_ at him. Talos! His blood was _boiling_.

Sweet Divines.

Then, suddenly, a great lurching noise sounded through the stillness of their alcove, and the thudding sound of the Centurion began to march across the path, and Rannve was clamping her hands around his face and pushing his head away from hers so that she could peer around the corner. The Centurion was heading right towards them, though from the censured way it was moving, it didn't seem to know what it was looking for.

She breathed out and turned to Onmund again, and all at once she was taken aback at the sheer need in his expression. She swallowed tightly at the sight of it. It was all consuming, as if he was seconds away from pressing their bodies together and continuing right where they left off. And – while she couldn't deny, anymore, that she dearly wanted to do just that, it…probably wasn't the best course of action at the moment.

She pushed him back just enough to slide out of his hold and grab his hand, dragging him forcibly around the rock and away from the Centurion's path. Then, the first moment they were able to, they both darted off into the shadows and left the automaton to its blind search.

And – fingers just as tangled as their hearts, not even the shadows could hide the intensity of their feelings as they rose up within them like soaring, crashing waves.


	36. Marked for Death

**A/N: In which nothing goes as planned.**

 **I don't mean to make you guys suffer after the last chapter, but I feel like Blackreach should be a little more dangerous...**

 **Please enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty Six | Marked for Death**

Rannve couldn't say, with any clarity of thought, how she ended up in Onmund's arms later that night. She couldn't exactly claim that it was planned, at least on her part. All she knew was that when they finally broke to make camp several hours after their impromptu run-in with the Centurion (and all that it entailed), Onmund ended up shoving his bedroll against hers and dragging her into his arms. And she didn't complain or try to pull away, which was the strangest part of it. She just curled her fingers into his robes and nuzzled closer, mind strewn with memories of his mouth against hers, their hips flush and their breathing entwined.

She fell asleep like that, and she had the best rest she'd had in months, willingly huddled in the warmth of his arms. It was really a shame that it didn't last.

It happened very suddenly. One moment she was having the best dream she'd ever had, no doubt prompted by the proximity of the man by her side, then the next was a flurry of confusion as Onmund's alarmed shout dragged her into a sleepy consciousness that was muddled and hazy. That didn't last, either. It's rather hard to ignore a dozen Falmer dropping in for a visit, after all.

They had Onmund before she could even pull herself up, heaving his flailing, disconcerted form into the shadows as five more converged upon her. It wasn't a fair fight, really. Besides their greater numbers, both Rannve and Onmund were unprepared and groggy with exhaustion. It had been folly to both go to sleep and not set up a watch. Just because they'd been extremely lucky avoiding the denizens of this place didn't mean they were safe. And – even though they were so tired even in their waking hours, it wasn't an excuse. Rannve might have even called it _unprofessional_. She was the thrice-damned Dragonborn, after all. She should know better.

Unfortunately, hindsight was a bitch, and Rannve the biggest fool of all.

They had ropes around her limbs before she could even draw her sword; one around her ankles, several around her torso, and one around her mouth, as if some part of them knew that her voice was as dangerous as the rest of her. She couldn't so much as move, and she certainly couldn't stop them from dragging her behind them as they disappeared into the dark, bringing her with them. Onmund was no where to be seen, and Rannve's heart thudded anxiously at the thought of losing him like this.

Gods, it was all her fault. She was so _stupid_. She'd let herself get so distracted by him. She'd let herself fall prey to both her own desires as well as the strange enchanting need to _sleep_ and to never wake up again. She hadn't even questioned it, not once, as she drifted off with him.

The Falmer took them to a large fortress. The huge orb that glowed from high above lit the place up. She remembered seeing it days before, when she was perched atop the gates of Blackreach with Onmund. She recalled wondering what it was, but now she wished she never knew. She scowled up at it as they led her beneath the iridescent golden rays, and that's when she saw Onmund.

More Falmer had joined the fray. He was surrounded by about a dozen now. They had tied him up as well, and had slapped some sort of cuffs on his wrists. They were strange things that covered his whole hands, and with a shot of morbid fascination, she wondered how the Falmer had gotten a hold of magic-draining irons. Oh, they were screwed.

Onmund's eyes clashed into hers the moment they pulled her into the courtyard. He looked worried and even a little bit frightened. She hated seeing that expression on his face.

"Rannve!" he called, taking in the sight of the ropes that bound her tightly. His eyes lingered on the one that the Falmer had rather rudely shoved around her mouth and his eyes darkened. He didn't really get the chance to do anything about it though, because that's when the nearest Falmer took the blunt side of his dagger and shoved it into his gut.

Rannve jerked angrily as she watched him gasp and keel over. With his hands cuffed as they were, he fell gracelessly in a heap of College robes that suddenly looked extremely out of place in this hell. Talos, what had she _done?_ What was she even thinking, bringing him with her? This was no place for a College apprentice who had somehow managed to wrangle his way through the thick barriers of her heart. He was too _good_ for this.

She tried jerking forward, but to her surpise, a man stepped up to her with his hands held out. She thought she was dreaming for a moment, but when she blinked, he was still there. A human. He had distinct Nordic features, with skin paler than she'd ever seen and eyes that seemed to shine in an almost soulless manner. One of the Falmer handed him the ropes they had used to drag her forward, and he pulled her towards a nearby building.

Naturally, she pulled back.

" – _et o ee ou mpphk mmm!"_ Her eyes blazed with fury when the words became indecipherable around the thick cord of rope shoved against her tongue, though it certainly didn't stop her from narrowing her eyes at the man who had the gall to pull the _Dragonborn_ around like a _dog_.

"I will fucking kill you!" she tried to say, though it came out more like, _"Eff e finkee oo!"_

Any of her particularly aggravating enemies might have burst into laughter at the sound that emitted from her, but the man just blinked soullessly at her and turned back to the building, hardly giving her a second glance.

"Rannve – " Onmund called again, pushing himself up onto his knees and reaching out for her. But he was halfway across the courtyard, surrounded on all sides by Falmer and human slaves that seemed to be more brainwashed than a Stormcloak general, and he only earned himself another heartless shove that sent him, once more, to the ground.

She wasn't sure what was worse: that she was being treated like scum by obviously brainwashed men, or that her mage was being mistreated right in front of her eyes. To be honest, both things made her so furious that all she could do was grit her teeth and try to form the words of a Shout, but – well, it wasn't exactly easy to form the precise words around a thick band of rope, and she failed spectactularly.

" _O-huu!"_ she tried to shout instead, swiveling around to meet crystal blue eyes as she was pulled into the bronze doorway of the building. His name was muffled and incoherent, but he seemed to understand anyhow, and locked eyes with her until a Falmer shoved his face into the dirt. When he looked up again, Rannve had gone, vanished from view into the building with her trail of Falmer and slaves, and he was alone.

Gritting his teeth and the thought, Onmund bowed his head and did not look any of his captives in the eye. He had not been afraid, when Rannve's presence had been nearby, but now that she was gone he felt the fear begin to sink into his veins. He was not a fighter. He could barely weild the sword that Rannve had forced him to bring, and without his magic he was useless.

He tugged at the iron cuffs again, wincing a little when they dug into his wrist. The enchantment on the cuffs was strong. It was a physical effect he could feel as it wove into him. The cuffs didn't only restrict his magic and blocked him from conjuring it, but it also drained his magicka stores. It was slow leeching, slow enough where it wouldn't kill him, but fast enough where he could literally feel the pull of his magic being funneled away. The realization of this brought a gut wrenching fear though him. After all, without his magic, what was he? A bumbling Nord who had fancied himself talented enough for join the College of Winterhold. Well, if he couldn't get out of this place, then he'd fancy himself nothing more than dust in the ground.

But it became more and more evident to him that these Falmer did not mean to kill him. They brought him into another building, not the same one that Rannve had gone into. The cell they pushed him into was wrought bronze and the bars went all the way to the ceiling. He was afforded an uncomfortable stone bed and one bucket that was shoved into the corner, which smelled utterly repulsive. These Falmer didn't imprison them for no reason, but it wasn't until later that day when he had that particular realization.

He probably wouldn't have fully understood it, had he not been a mage, but when a small group of Falmer magic weilders came to see him hours later, Onmund just knew. Call it gut instinct or intuition, perhaps, for he had never recalled studying this sort of magic in depth before, but…he had a feeling that the Falmer were trying to turn him into one of their own human slaves.

The magic they hit him with did not hurt at all. In fact, it was almost tranquil, like a dip in a cool lake at the end of summer, or dozing off into a peaceful sleep full of happy dreams. He closed his eyes and couldn't help but relax at the threads of magic spinning over him…until he realized that the spell was making its way to his head, both literally and figuratively. His eyes blinked open just in time to see the Falmer mages raise their hands so as to direct the magic further up. Their eyes glowed a reddish grey that made warning bells go off in his mind. Any spell cast by a Falmer shouldn't feel so pleasant.

Onmund knew enough about magic to be able to throw up something of a shield. Oh, it wasn't a spell that was physically conjured – the cuffs would not allow such a thing. The shield that he called upon was more mental than literal. He imagined clear white crystal doming over his mind, caging it into protected layers. Onmund imagined the spell bouncing off of it, unable to penetrate past the crystal. Like rays of light reflecting through the air, he was able to press just the barest amounts of magic around his head and keep out the brunt of their spell.

He wasn't entirely sure that it was working, but by the time the session seemed to be over and the Falmer mages ambled away, Onmund didn't feel any different from usual. At least, he didn't feel inclined to follow after the Falmer like a blind, helpless mutt. Small favors.

Soon after the Falmer mages made their exit, a human slave approached his cell with a small tray of food. He left it just outside the bars, near enough for Onmund to reach his hand out to pick at the food. Thankfully, the bars were wide enough to fit the cup of water through them, because he was thirstier than he ever remembered being in his life – no doubt a combined effect of the magic draining cuffs and the attempted assault on his mind.

Unfortunately, the meal itself was paltry and quite different from what Onmund was used to eating. A few mushrooms and a bowl of something that tasted bitter were his only options, and he had never wished for dried meat more than he did in that moment.

The bed, too, was a far cry from his bedroll and fur blanket. When he went to sit down on it, it was cold and hard, without any furnishings to speak of. He wondered if all the human slaves down in this forsaken city slept on similar beds and ate similar food, and how long it had taken them to grow accustomed to it. Then – he shook the thought from his mind, because it only made him wonder how long it would take _him_ to get used to life here.

For surely Arkay's mercy did not extend to these black caverns, hidden so deeply from the light of the sun, and…well, perhaps it was his morbid thoughts getting in the way of his usual optimism, but Onmund rather wondered if he'd ever see the sun again, or if he was destined to remain here until his final days.


	37. Drain Vitality

**A/N: In which Rannve decides that they have the shittiest luck imaginable.**

 **I'll try to get through these next few chapters as fast as I can! Next update will be this weekend. Things will improve for Rannve and Onmund, don't worry!**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty Seven | Drain Vitality**

Rannve had never felt so low. As if it wasn't enough that she was stuffed into a tiny cell in a pitch black room, these damnable Falmer had spent close to an hour (by her estimation) throwing magic at her as if she was a target for them to practice on. She was already exhausted and cranky from being in this accursed place for so long, and now she also felt foggy and disoriented, as if she was walking sideways through a busy crowd.

Some part of her brain told her that something wasn't right about this newfound haze. It wasn't like her exhaustion. This felt different, more sinister – less the result of a lack of sleep and more due to something she could not identify, only she suspected that it came from the spell that the Falmer mages were imparting her with.

She couldn't do anything to stop it. The moment the human slaves had tossed her into this dank prison, they had tied her wrists to the wall and ensured that her other bonds were tight. She could feel the press of the ropes digging into her ankles and the corners of her mouth, and the awkward position of her arms above her made her body scream out. But – she'd been through worse. It was something she kept repeating over and over as the Falmer mages returned and blasted her foggy mind with more magic.

She almost got her head chopped off at Helgen. She could still feel the cold stone beneath her neck, covered with blood from the ones that had come before her, who were not as lucky. When she closed her eyes, she could still hear the thunderous flap of Alduin's wings as he descended from the sky; the shattering roar that pierced the courtyard and sent everyone into a flurry of panic; the crisp smolder of burning wood as his fire ransacked the town and decimated the entire place.

In the complete darkness of her cell, the memories of Helgen were even clearer than usual, and Rannve pressed herself against the cold stone wall with a shudder. Helgen had only been the beginning. It had set in motion a dozen other nightmares that she had tried to ignore, to run away from as surely as she was able. She never claimed to be a hero, and for the longest time, Rannve had denied her own destiny with all the stubbornness of her brethren. Unfortunately, fate had a way of catching up with you.

It was hard to ignore her part in a grand prophecy when, every time she stepped out the door, dragons would track her down and remind her who she was.

Rannve clamped down on the rope in her mouth and exhaled loudly. She closed her eyes and propped her knees up, head lolling into the stone behind her. Thoughts of dragons and destiny was distressing and pointless. She didn't even know if she would get out of here alive. And that led her to another thought.

Onmund. Where was he? _How_ was he? Was he even still alive?

She closed her eyes tightly and clamped her teeth down harder, trying to push the morbid thoughts away. No. If the Falmer wanted Onmund dead, then they would have just killed him instead of putting him in ropes and cuffing him like they had. They wouldn't have wasted resources or time if his fate was to be found at the bottom of an early grave. She had to believe that he was alive, because if she considered the other option…

Her heart thudded painfully, and she forced the thought away before it could cement into more. Instead, she turned her mind to other memories. Not of death and fire, but of kisses pressed into alcoves.

She thought of Onmund. His touch. His lips. The way he had kissed her, as if he was trying to breathe her in and become a part of her. The way he'd pressed their bodies together as if he wanted to merge with her right then and there – and skip the rest of it, they had both waited far too long anyway.

And yet had they waited that long? It had only been a few months since she had stepped into the Arcanaeum to first confront Urag about the books she needed. Was that really enough time to fall for someone? She couldn't deny that it certainly _felt_ like she'd fallen for Onmund, though she didn't exactly have anything to compare it to. She'd never allowed herself to get so close to anyone else before. The hasty couplings she had experienced in the past definitely didn't count.

There was something in her heart though; a strange twist of emotion that was part passion, part nostalgia. She couldn't explain the latter half of the feeling, only that it felt almost like she had come home. It had been a long time since she had a home to speak of. The one of her childhood had long since vanished into a cloud of memory and sentiment, and while she had plenty of houses across Skyrim, places she had purchased with the vast amounts of money she'd accumulated from her deeds, none of them had really felt like home to her. She certainly wouldn't miss them if they burned to the ground.

Rannve wasn't in the business of considering her own feelings or understanding her own thoughts. She was so used to ignoring the lot of it that she didn't even know where to begin to unravel what it was that she felt, or even what she wanted. But she couldn't deny that Onmund definitely had a role in it, whatever it was.

She just hoped they'd be able to figure it out someday. Preferably soon.

A day passed in this manner, or at least she suspected it was a day. It could have been hours, or weeks, or seconds, and she would not have known with any surety. All she knew was that the Falmer mages returned several times, and every time they left, Rannve felt even foggier than before, as if they were taking some of her consciousness along with them. It was frightening, but after a while, she didn't really care. Perhaps they were also taking her wariness as well, because whenever they appeared, Rannve just blinked at them and let them cast their magic in an almost resigned manner.

She hadn't really connected the dots yet. Or – perhaps she had, and she was just resigned about that, too. The human slaves would bring her meals and idle around while she ate to remove and replace the rope around her mouth, and Rannve would eye them through the dimness of the lantern they would bring with them, wondering how long it would take for her to become just as brainless and unfeeling.

She was certainly on her way down that path, and to be honest, a part of her was okay with it. The other part of her, the part that scorned the vileness of being caged in this dark, dank prison cell miles below the earth, revolted – but there was little she could do, for her strength was gone and her willpower nearly gone as well.

Of course she had no way of knowing, at that point, that her mage just happened to be just a little bit stronger than she realized, and that for once, she would not be the rescuer, but the rescued.


	38. Courage

**Chapter Thirty Eight | Courage**

Onmund knew a thing or two about storing his magic. The cuffs around his hands were draining his reserves little by little, but after a while he observed several things about them. The first was that, though the trickle of magic was slow to be absorbed by the enchantment put on the cuffs, it was also continuous. The second was that the enchantment itself was rather old. It felt unused and rusty, just like the metal itself, which had long since lost its shine in this damp fortress full of mildew and rot. As he sat in his cell and waited for more visits from the Falmer mages, who were thus far unsuccessful at washing his mind of its stubborn need to cling to coherent thought, he stumbled upon an idea.

Granted, it might not have been a very _good_ idea. If it went wrong, he could very well drain all of his magicka stores and it could end up killing him. But if, on the off chance, it actually worked…well, it might give him the opportunity to get out of here. Besides, it was the only plan he had, and he was getting a little tired of sitting in the dark, surrounded by bronze bars as if he was an animal in a cage. He was also tired of wondering what had happened to Rannve, and if she was alright, and just how aggravated and impatient she had become at the recent turn of events. He'd give anything to see the glower of her silver eyes right about now, even if it was directed at him. Anything was better than the total darkness of this terrible place.

And…he was worried besides. The Falmer's tactics had been unsuccessful on him, because he had training in magic and could figure out what they were trying to do long before they could sway his mind. He knew enough about spells to realize that the one they kept using on him had one purpose, which was to turn him into another of their human slaves, so that he could toil down here until the end of his sad existence, doing their bidding without question. He was able to protect his mind from their enchantments fairly well so far, and he still had the clarity of thought to know that he had to continue shielding himself if he ever wanted to breathe the crisp mountain air again. But Rannve…

Well, she hadn't exactly made it a secret that she didn't trust magic. Oh, she no doubt trusted it more than most Nords. She did bring him along with her on her quest, after all, and she had admitted that he had proved quite useful over the course of it. Her arrogance had no doubt made it difficult for her to admit such things, which meant that it was all the truer. But she didn't _favor_ magic. She preferred steel over spells, and because of her lack of training and her general disinterest in the subject, she was not as experienced in it compared to Onmund. She wouldn't be able to protect her mind from the enchantments that quietly stole from her the self-control and individuality of her person. She would be more susceptible. He was worried that the longer they spent down here, the worse she would become.

He couldn't bear to think of it. Every time a brainwashed servant came to deliver his meal, all Onmund could do was stare at the soulless eyes and imagine Rannve in its place. She could never deserve such a fate. It didn't matter what questionable things she'd done over the course of her life. Nobody deserved having their humanity stolen from them in such a way.

And so, when Onmund was fairly certain that he would not have any visitors any time soon, he began to make his escape attempt.

It wasn't so much as an attempt as it was a concentrated effort to push his magic outward. He knew that the first thing he had to do was remove these cuffs from his wrists. If he had any chance of getting out of here and searching for Rannve, he needed both his full faculties and his magic. And so he sat up, straightened his back out, and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the spin of said magic within him.

To be honest, he had never done anything like this before. Then again, there was never any need to. It was fascinating how motivated a person could become when backed into a corner.

He felt the pull of his magic being absorbed into the cuffs, the slow trickle of it as it disappeared from his body and was stored inside the iron. It was not easy, but he wrangled his attention away from the ever-present drain and instead on what remained of his magicka. He still had plenty of it. It burned brightly within him, rushing through his aura like veins might rush through a body. He tapped into it, or at least attempted to, though since he had never tried to use his raw magic before he wasn't sure how successful he was. He didn't actually know until he forced it all towards his hands in one heavy push, flooding it into the cuffs in hopes of overpowering the old enchantment.

He wasn't sure how long it took. Surely longer than a minute or two. He grew weaker the more he pressed, and he knew that his magicka stores were running dangerously low. He was frankly beginning to wonder if it would work at all or if he would end up draining himself completely. But he worried for nothing. A few minutes later, the cuffs rattled and the enchantment broke, but that was not all that happened.

The metal itself, which was rusted and ill maintained, burst as water might burst from a damn. The cuffs shattered from the pure assault of his magic upon them, and Onmund opened his eyes to witness the bright blue rush out of his hands as the metal dropped away.

He stared at his fingers for a moment in total shock, eyes wide. He wasn't entire sure that it would work, yet – it did! He was at once prouder of himself than he had ever been in all his life. He had just done something that, as far as he knew, only master-level mages could do. And he, a stumbling Nord apprentice who was always behind in his classes and needed to do extra research to stay on top of everything, had surpassed himself.

Perhaps he had always known that he was already better at controlling his magic these days. Since starting this quest, he had grown in leaps and bounds. His Restoration magic, which he had never had a practical handle on, came to him as easily a breathing. And – Destruction, of which he had always shied away from to some extent, was natural and powerful. Maybe he was being a little too confident in that moment, but he rather thought he could go toe-to-toe with some of his _professors_. After all, none of their internships ever included a trip through a Dwemer ruin, right into Blackreach – with the Dragonborn for company!

Onmund grinned and loosened the chains, now easily pulling his wrists free of the once-restricting metal frames. He sighed in relief when he felt the steady outflow of magic stop. He no longer had to contend with that barbaric draining spell. And, though he had used quite a bit of magicka in breaking said spell, he still had enough to get himself out of here. Or, at the very least, make one courageous attempt.

If someone had told him a year ago that he would be sneaking around Falmer on his way to save the Dragonborn herself, he would have asked what book they had gotten that story from, for surely it was a work of fiction. After all, Onmund was not a heroic warrior who made it a routine to loiter in Dwemer ruins. He was a homebody. He enjoyed the comforts of a warm bed and a healthy meal at the day's end. Not bedrolls and stone chairs and dried meat. Yet here he was, directing his magic to the bolted bronze door of his cell, tearing through the lock in a similar way as he'd torn through the metal cuffs and walking right into Falmer territory with his head held high.

Er – well, not high, necessarily. That is to say, he certainly made a valient effort to be as courageous as possible, but it was a little difficult to press down the rattle of his own fear as it shook into his veins. If he was caught, he'd be right back to where he started, and he doubted he'd ever get another chance again.

He remembered what Rannve had told him about Falmer. They were totally blind, but had incredible hearing. He could be quiet if he wanted to. The main problem was the human slaves, who would be able to see him clearly if he wasn't careful. So it was with great care that he snuck to the door of the room he'd been kept prisoner in and blindly searched for the handle, squinting his eyes through the darkness until he found it. He cracked it open just slightly and peered out. After spending however many days in near darkness, it took him several moments to adjust to the bright light that the glowing orb provided high above the courtyard. When he did, he blinked out to see if there was anyone in the general vicinity.

It was by some stroke of luck, for which Onmund figured he was probably running out of, that the coast seemed clear.

Later on, when he was safe and sound and retelling this story years in the future, he would exaggerate his strength and bravery, spinning the tale into one that would make his small listeners lean forward with wide eyes. A good fireside story needed a dashing hero, after all – one that didn't quake or jump at every shift of sound. But, to be perfectly honest, he did not feel very strong or brave as he crept across the courtyard, nearly plastering himself against the wall as he silently inched towards the building that Rannve had disappeared into however long before.

Had it been hours? Days? He wasn't sure. It felt like an eternity had passed since he'd last laid eyes upon her as she was dragged away from him, kicking and fighting every step. He was sure that it had been at least a few days, if not more, since their capture. The Falmer mages had attempted to weave their spell into him several times, and he had a hunch that it took quite a bit of rest to restore their magicka after pouring it all into his brain. It seemed like a complicated spell, one that required intense concentration to weild. He was only thankful that he had magical training and was able to thwart their efforts – and, also, that they did not seem to be aware of the mental shield he had put up to block them.

There were a few Falmer scouting the upper walls of the fortress, but they were too far away for the shuffling noise of Onmund's boots to alert them of their escaped captive. The human slaves seemed to have disappeared altogether, a fact that Onmund was grateful for, as he wasn't sure he had enough magicka to keep a horde of men and Falmer from skewering him where he stood. He somehow doubted that they would renew their efforts at brainwashing him if they caught him. Death seemed a more plausible fate.

But fate, it seemed, had other ideas for him today.

The building that Rannve had vanished into was near enough to his. The only problem was that there was a corridor that cut between them, wide open space laid out with hardly any barriers he could hide behind. When he reached it, he pressed himself against the cold stone wall and glanced down it, searching for some errant slave or Falmer master that might come this way. There was no sign of movement on the other end of the hallway, and so he took a step into it, abandoning his post to make an attempt at crossing. The moment he did, a slave stepped around the corner and stopped dead, eyes alighting upon Onmund's form before he could pull himself back again.

Talos, mercy! His nerves brandished inside of him as they stood and stared at each other, one pair of eyes unnervingly soulless, the other wide with fear. And then, as if in slow motion, the slave let out a high pitched wail and pointed at him, shrieking as if it was the only sound he could form.

Onmund's heart near to pushed into his throat at the raucous sound. For a moment he didn't know what to do and just stood there dumbly, staring at the outstretched finger in utter shock. Then, slowly at first but with increasing rapidness, the telltale sound of Falmer croaks began to fill the silence that wasn't yet occupied by the slave's ongoing wail and Onmund's own thumping heart beat.

It rather felt as though a bucket of icy water had been overturned on him. At once, he was drawn from his stupor and with a frightened, "Talos!", he bolted.

He knew all too well what would happen to him if he was caught now. The thought spurred him on as he ducked across the corridor and dashed to the other building, wildly and gracelessly trying to turn the doorknob as the entire fortress began to converge upon him.

"Come on, come on – " It turned, and he threw himself inside with a harried breath before slamming the door loudly behind him. All hope for stealth was long gone.

His hands were a shaking mess as he summoned his magic, casting a bright orb of light that would allow him to see through the thick darkness of the unlit room. And then – with a resolution that no doubt came from his own terror, he turned and slapped his hands against the bronze door, using what little magic he had left to ensure that it would stay locked, at least for a time.

He was in the midst of turning back around to face the blackness of the room when a muffled groan caught his attention. And – peering through the darkness, the dull glint of silver eyes appeared, reflected from the magical light that floated over his form.

"Rannve," he breathed, relief and fear coating his voice.

He would deny this too, later on in his retellings, but as he stepped over to the cell that held her, he brushed away tears that gathered in his eyes at the sight she made. Huddled, drained, and utterly lacking the spirit that he had come to see in her – the spirit that he had come to love.


	39. Dragonrend

**Chapter Thirty Nine | Dragonrend**

Rannve stared at him blankly. It wasn't the same soulless glower that the human slaves possessed, but it was emotionless enough to make him worried. As he strode forward and began funneling magic into the lock of her cell, his worried only skyrocketed. The bronze door began rattling, loud bangs filling the quiet of the room. The telltale sound of muffled snarls leaked through, far too angrily for Onmund's liking. He had no idea how long they'd be safe in here, or if there was another entrance that he didn't yet know about, but the faster he woke Rannve up from whatever stupor she was in, the better.

The lock shattered with just a small burst of magic, grounged up from the bottommost well of his reserves. He was truly beginning to worry about that, but pushed the thought to the side for now, in favor of flinging the door open and crowding over to where Rannve sat.

He immediately freed her wrists and began cutting the ropes away from her ankles. She just watched him. There was a peculiar look in her eye – half recognizable, half baffled, and it unnerved him in ways he would not admit. Not now, when he needed all his faculties to free them.

When he reached up to pull down the rope that was still taut around her mouth, Onmund whispered furtively, "We don't have much time, Rannve – the whole of this city is after us. Can you stand?"

She just groaned and didn't say anything. His eyes darkened with concern. Hands fluttering over her form, Onmund murmured, "Rannve, say something. _Please."_

The emotion and weight of his voice seemed to do _something_ , at least, though he was unsure if it was a good something or a bad something. Rannve looked up at him, eyes piercing his through the dim bluish light of the floating orb hanging above them, and furrowed her brow. He pursed his lips and leaned forward, finally settling his hands on her shoulders and shaking her just a little, as if he was trying to impart some of his sensibilities into her.

"Say something," he begged again, one ear pointed toward the loud banging of the door, the other towards her, hoping to hear an utterance that would put his worries aside. When he didn't receive one, he swallowed, _"Divines,_ Rannve – if you don't pull yourself together, we're never getting out of here – "

"Shut up, Onmund," she suddenly blurted, and winced, "my head hurts."

It was true. Around the pounding, incessant headache that ricocheted through her skull, a bone-deep ache had spread through her entire body, leaving her almost numb and useless. Onmund's loud blathering wasn't helping.

He gaped at her, looking shocked, until at once he rushed forward and threw his arms around her, and – Rannve couldn't deny that _this_ was a little better than his constant rambles.

"Gods, I thought for a moment…" he trailed off, pulling back just enough to quite suddenly tilt her face up and arch his mouth into hers, without a single shard of hesitance. Rannve was shocked. For about five seconds, at least. And then, once those five seconds were up, all she could do was sink into him and scrabble at the front of his soft cotton robes, heaving him closer as her mouth moved beneath his.

In truth, it was a luxury they could not afford. They didn't exactly have time to exchange kisses as if nothing else mattered, because something else _did_ matter. Very much so. The Falmer certainly weren't going to step back and give them a bit of privacy.

With a reluctant sigh, Onmund pulled away, only for Rannve to tug him back down and kiss him again, lips curving over his intently. At any other moment, he'd be more than willing to allow her to kiss him as much as she wanted, especially with that needy fire, but…

"We've got to get out of here," he told her, whispering against her lips as he caught her eye. She frowned, but didn't try to stop him this time when he pulled back and stood up. Instead she just watched him begin to pace, wringing his hands in front of him as he muttered, "The only problem is that we don't have our packs or our weapons, and I've no idea where they put them. And the entire city is just behind that door, waiting for my spell to wear off."

Head far clearer than it had been in days, Rannve went to pull herself up and nonchalantly shrugged, "You've got magic."

Onmund rolled his eyes at her. "I don't have enough magicka to put down a couple dozen Falmer. I used most of it trying to get here."

Rannve only blinked at him. As she stretched her sore limbs, she considered their situation. Her final verdict was that they were screwed. Not that this particularly surprised her.

Until they got out of this fortress, there was no way of knowing how close they were to the Tower of Mzark. Venturing out into Blackreach without weapons or stores of food was suicidal. And yet, so was staying here. At least they had a chance at survival out there, if they were careful enough. They had made it this far without any fatal run-ins with enemies, after all, until the Falmer had stumbled upon them.

Besides, she was the _Dragonborn_. She still had a few cards up her sleeve.

Rolling her shoulders back, Rannve confidently said, "Worry not, Onmund. These miscreants have no idea who they're dealing with."

She'd admit that she was probably being a little too confident, to the point of arrogance perhaps. One of them had to at least _pretend_ like they knew what they were doing, though. And it wasn't as if she was lying. These Falmer really didn't know who they had captured. They had taken her swords and daggers and bow, but she had another weapon which couldn't be so easily stolen.

Onmund gave her an exasperated look and said, "I really hope you have a plan, Rannve."

The look she sent him was just shy of amused. It was better than the blank expression she'd graced him with before, in any case.

Biting back a laugh, she patted his shoulder and callously said, "A plan? I doubt I've _ever_ thought that far ahead."

It was a slight exaggeration. She could strategize just as well as the next warrior. However, her reckless nature was of better use when it was allowed to be just that: reckless. If Onmund was looking for some semblance of reassurance, she didn't really have any to give.

At least he didn't look overly surprised at her words, and he just heaved a sigh and muttered, "Well, if I'm going to die today, I'd rather get it over with."

Rannve became a little more serious at that. Onmund, dying? No, that would not happen today. Not if she had any say on the matter.

"You're forgetting something rather important, Onmund," she said, walking as stoutly as she could manage to the bronze door of the room. Being cooped up in a cell and not allowed to move her limbs had certainly made her a little shaky, but luckily, she hadn't been in here for so long as to make it a real problem. By the time she reached the door with Onmund fast on her heels, the rush of adrenaline was working wonderously when it came to propelling her forward.

"Oh? What am I forgetting?" he asked, watching warily as she reached for the handle of the door. He really, _really_ hoped she knew what she was doing.

Rannve glanced at him over her shoulder and arrogantly responded, "I'm the fucking _Dragonborn."_

He had heard her say those very same words in that arrogant tone so many times that his first response was to roll his eyes at her and tell her to stop being so vain. And yet – it was just a little amusing, really – despite the amount of times she'd said it aloud, Onmund had never truly witnessed it. At least not in the manner he was about to.

Right before she turned the handle, Rannve peered over at him and said, "Stay close to me."

And, really, there was only one response to that. Raising his chin, Onmund told her, "Always."

Honestly, as if he'd ever willingly leave her side.

The Falmer weren't expecting to be graciously allowed inside their fortress by their own prisoners. They also weren't expecting the rather inspiring way Rannve took a deep breath and Shouted at them before they were even able to come to terms with their sudden shift in circumstance. If Onmund was being honest, he would have to admit that the sight she made in that moment definitely drew forth a generous helping of the hero-worship he thought he'd successfully tampered down on.

" **Fus Ro Dah!"**

At once, the Falmer that were huddled at the door were blown away, bodily crashing into one another as they were pushed by some unknown force halfway across the courtyard. Onmund, naturally, could only stop and stare, gaping in astonishment at this display of power that he _knew_ she had, but had never seen for himself.

He didn't have any time whatsoever to ogle, though. Rannve grabbed his wrist and shoved him outside, dragging him behind her as they make a quick exit. The Falmer were still grappling with each other, trying to right themselves so as to make chase. The Shout lent them several moments of time to get a little closer to the gate before the Falmer began screeching and hurtling themselves forward once more.

"Rannve!" Onmund yelled, looking over his shoulder at the snarling, angry mass of wrinkled faces. "Another Shout maybe!"

Rannve grimaced but turned around anyway to hiss, **"Yol Toor!"** at the approaching horde. A brilliant burst of fire blazed at them, hot and searing, and caused a number of them to fall back with howling wails as the fire consumed their flesh. Onmund stared in horror at the sight but didn't complain when Rannve pushed him to the gate once more, hands insistently shoving at his back.

"Run!" she yelled at him, voice hoarse and dry. He frowned and looked back at her, wondering why she sounded so ragged, but Rannve only turned around again and Shouted once more, this time drawing coils of electricity from the air itself as her innate pool of magic burst forth.

It was incredible to witness, truly. The air itself merged with conjured clouds, which sent bolts of lightning down upon errant Falmer and human alike, shocking them into the ground and drawing more painful yowls from them with each passing breath – breath that Rannve was beginning to run out of. She gasped, exhausted at the use of the power that she usually shied away from, and was only able to move because Onmund grasped her arm and pulled her to the gate. They had only a few moments of peace before a wave of Falmer mages descended upon them, swords slicing and spells blazing.

Onmund didn't even think as he used up the last of his magic, casting a ward around them to keep them safe from the biting spells. As for Rannve…

She winced painfully, took another deeper breath, and Shouted the last of them backwards with the same Shout she'd used the first time, summoning all three words to ensure that they were given a little bit of extra time to escape. The words were not easy to utter; they blazed angrily through her throat and shredded it, making her gasp out another rattling sound that frankly worried Onmund more than he let on. He didn't stop to question it, though. They didn't really have time for heart to hearts.

No, he barely even had time to realize what was happening as Rannve threw her arms around his waist, took another rattling breath, and Shouted, **"Wuld Nah…Kest!"**

And then, quite suddenly, the world itself blurred and mere moments later, they were not even in the fortress at all, but rather outside of it, about a hundred feet from the walls.

Rannve groaned painfully and lifted her hand to her throat. She began coughing, rasping animalistically in a manner that Onmund had never before heard from a human being. It sounded distinctly draconian, in a way that frightened him somewhat, especially when he took note of the way her eyes were gleaming and her pupils had narrowed down to slivers.

"Come on – we can't linger," he hurriedly said, taking a hold of her arm as he pressed back his fear. They have only very narrowly escaped the fortress, and they were at a clear disadvantage. The Falmer were no doubt rallying themselves to go out and hunt them down, and what was worse, they had no weapons or anything that would assist them if the creatures were successful, for they hadn't had time to retrieve their belongings.

Onmund's magic was severely depleted, and Rannve looked worse for wear. He wasn't sure if she'd be able to Shout again – something that both fascinated him and dismayed him – and so there was really only one thing to do: run.

Later on, in those fireside tales that he would spin for his commanding audience, he'd imbue some humor into this part of the story. ( _"We ran through Blackreach like our pants were ablaze, listening to the sound of our pursuers and hardly caring where we stepped – ")_ But there was nothing truly amusing about it right then and there.

They indeed ran through the luminescent darkness like hell itself was on their tale, catapulting haphazardly over stone and rock, hurtling through streams, tripping across roots – and they didn't stop even once for what felt like hours. And then, finally, after an age of running wildly through the dangerous darkness of Blackreach, they both fell, gasping to the ground, for they couldn't run any longer.

They could've lain there for minutes or hours, heaving and panting for breath, staring up at the crystals high above them and the golden orb of light that was now far in the distance. It might have been an age all its own, until Rannve glanced to her right and rasped, "Onmund…look."

He struggled to turn his head, but when he did, he was beyond grateful for the sight that loomed up behind them.

"Thank the Divines…" he heaved, and started to chuckle.

For there, not twenty yards away from where they lay gasping in the dirt, was the Tower of Mzark.


	40. Equilibrium

**A/N: In which Rannve and Onmund are finally safe.**

 **Hope you all enjoy, and thanks for the reviews!**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty | Equilibrium**

"Are you sure it's safe?" Onmund whispered, staring at Rannve's back as she peered into the darkness within the tower. The door was ajar and they were both standing in the threshold, half ready to tumble inside of it and be done with it, and half wary that that darkness might be the home of some wayward denizen of this place.

There was only one way to find out, though. Rannve shrugged, rolled her shoulders back, and stepped inside. She made it all of three steps before Onmund caught her arm and hissed, "Wait."

She eyed him impatiently, an expression he caught sight of when he cast a magelight spell above them and illumined her face. Her unimpressed glower disappeared when she stared up at the floating orb, though, and she nudged him with a snarky, "I knew you'd be good for something."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"I've been very useful and don't you dare deny it," he muttered, almost to himself as he stepped around her. The orb followed him. Rannve did, too.

"Yes, you have," she admitted breezily. "I doubt I'd have made it this far on my own. I'm eternally grateful." The strange sincerity of her tone made him stop and stare at her, eyebrows raised into his hairline as he waited for the catch. He wasn't disappointed. With a smirk that should frankly be outlawed, Rannve leaned closer and wondered, "What prize would my mage have?"

The innuendo of her voice made his cheeks flare with bright red – and made her burst into laughter.

He pursed his lips at her and scowled, "I think you need some rest. Your voice sounds awful."

It was true. After Shouting so many times with almost no pause between, Rannve's throat was sore and painful. It hurt to even swallow, let alone talk, but she couldn't help herself. The reminder made her wrinkle her nose in agreement and hum.

As they walked into the tower, Onmund draw upon his magic to cast a few more orbs, sending them into the corners of the dark room. His magic, though still very depleted, was beginning to come back to him. Only rest would really restore his reserves to their full potential, but small spells like this barely used up any magic at all. It definitely beat bumping around in the dark, in any case.

"Does that happen often?" he found himself asking as they looked around the room. The door was shut firmly behind them to ward off any Falmer who might have ventured this far in their pursuit. Rannve doubted they'd have much trouble with them now, though. They had seemed pretty angry, but there were other creatures in Blackreach who were enemies of the Falmer, and she hoped they would fend them off.

She glanced over at Onmund to see him looking at her carefully, and she shrugged. The room seemed empty, so she stepped forward towards the next hallway and began to walk forward. As she did, she responded, "Humans aren't made to Shout. To summon the power of dragons is…painful, sometimes. It depends on the Shout, really." She shrugged and kept walking.

Onmund hurried behind. His curiosity was endless. He'd never heard of this before, and he knew nearly all of the stories of past Dragonborns! Er – a fascination he had.

"So is that why you don't usually do it?" he questioned as they walked down the narrow hallway. The orb of light followed them, illuminating the stone path ahead.

Rannve sent him an unimpressed look, no doubt taking note of the hero-worshipping tone he was using, and rolled her eyes, "It tears my throat up. Plus it brings too much attention to myself."

Onmund chuckled at this and mused, "I kind of figured you'd like that. Being the center of attention, that is."

She heaved a sigh and arrogantly responded, "I do. But I don't like to be reminded that I'm the Dragonborn – the savior come to life. If I had my way, I'd just let Alduin eat the damn world and be done with it."

He paused. "You don't mean that. Skyrim is your home."

Rannve just glowered and muttered, "Well it sure asks a lot from me."

He opened his mouth to respond, but Rannve stopped in front of him with a surprised expression, and he turned his head to see what she was looking at. His eyebrows rose. It was some huge bronze…orb. They could only see a small portion of it. It looked like it was enormous, taking up the entire room that they were walking into.

"What's _that?"_ he asked, never seeing anything like it. It was probably twenty times the size of the Eye of Magnus, if not more. He furrowed his brow and together, they began walking up the stone ramp that took them around the bronze ball, all the way up to the top of it.

"This is where the Elder Scroll is being kept," Rannve murmured distractedly as they approached the top. It was quite a sight. The bronze orb was completely contained in its stone trappings, which held it in place. At the other end of the room, the stone path led up ever higher, to a landing where several bronze contraptions awaited. At the ceiling were what looked like lenses made of blueish green glass, high above that overlooked the orb. There were even a few gilded bronze chairs nearby – some remnant of the lost Dwemer civilization.

Onmund breathed out an awed murmur as he took it all in. There was something grand about it all, in a strange way, as if an unseen force presided over the room and graced it with grandeur.

"It's amazing," he muttered, tilting his head to stare at the lenses above them. Some otherworldly light seemed to dance from them, illuminating the ground with shards of blues and greens.

Rannve grunted in agreement and crossed her arms, eyeing the pedestals. "I'd like to get started transcribing this damn thing, but I think a little sleep would be a better idea. My head's still spinning from that spell."

Her admission had Onmund peering at her in worry – a look she definitely noticed. She brushed him away before he could so much as speak and said, "I'm fine, Onmund, just tired. I'm heading back down to the room below us to see if there's any useful supplies."

He paused, turned his eyes back to the bronze orb, and rubbed his neck. "I…I think I'll stay up here a while longer. I want to look around some more."

He usually wouldn't part ways from her, especially after the frankly terrifying last few days, but he figured they were safe enough in the tower. Rannve seemed to think so, too, because she just shrugged and said, "Alright. Don't be too long though."

He nodded. He ended up poking around for a while, moving up to study the bronze pedestals at the top of the stone landing and curiously peering at what looked like a set of instructions nearby, blazing out with blue light. After a while, when he decided he'd like nothing more than to sleep for an age, Onmund returned to the first room of the tower where Rannve was.

This room had a strange layout. It looked to be some sort of foyer, with stone steps that descended into several layers near the edges and had benches atop them. Rannve had set up camp at the center of it all. Though, sadly, there wasn't exactly much to set up.

They'd lost their belongings to the Falmer, including their bedrolls and stores of food. They had nothing to lay down on but hard, cold stone. There seemed to be no supplies around the room that would be of any help, and even if there were, Onmund was quite sure that centuries old blankets would be far too tattered and decayed to be worth the effort. They would just have to make do with the floor.

Rannve was already asleep, curled up into a ball with her back pressed to the edge of a stone stair and her head cushioned on the crook of her elbow. She looked so exhausted that he doubted it had taken much time for her to find sleep, even despite their current conditions. He decided to follow suit, knowing that he needed a good rest if he wanted his magicka to be fully restored. So he lay himself down beside her and gathered her against him, hardly hesitating as he drew her head onto his arm and rolled on his side to face her.

Sleep came far easier than he would have imagined.


	41. Flame Cloak

**A/N: In which Rannve gives him, for a moment.**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty One | Flame Cloak**

When Rannve woke up, it was dark and Onmund was gone. She sat up quickly in a haze of concern, and then cringed against the pain that clung to her throat. It felt swollen, and every time she swallowed, it was as if she was downing fire itself. Groaning, she pushed herself up and hurriedly walked back up the stone path that wound around the bronze orb, thinking that Onmund had returned to study the place some more. His curiosity was endless – a trait she both appreciated and found wanting, for here in the depths of Blackreach, such a thing could get a man killed. But when she reached the top, her mage was no where in sight.

Now doubly concerned, Rannve jogged back to the main room and headed to the door. All manner of dark imaginings took hold of her as she warily stepped outside and looked around. He had clearly wandered off somewhere – a terribly stupid thing to do, really – and she just hoped he hadn't gone and gotten himself captured again right after they'd just escaped.

But all her worries were useless. Onmund was not in danger. As Rannve walked down the stone steps around the tower to search for him, she quickly realized that he was perfectly fine.

Perfectly _fine_.

She stopped abruptly and stared down at the water, eyes wide.

Onmund didn't see her at first, but when he glanced back over at the looming tower above him, awed at how far it spiraled upward, his eyes clashed with Rannve's quite suddenly. His face immediately turned bright red.

"…What are you doing?" Rannve asked, sounding blank. Her tone only made Onmund falter that much more.

His mouth flapped open for a few moments before he cleared his throat and awkwardly laughed, "Um…well, I was originally going to see if there were any fish in these waters but, er – it was so warm that I got a little…distracted."

Distracted? Talos! If anyone had the right to claim distraction, it was _her_. She eyed him, gaze roving from broad shoulders to chest, until the water cut off the rest of his form and she could see no more. She almost couldn't believe it. Here they were, in a place far more dangerous than any Rannve had ever been to before, and Onmund was taking a bath. _A bath!_

He sent her a crooked smile that looked lovely coupled with his still blushing cheeks, and said, "The water's really warm. I bet it would be good for your throat, too. It's still sore, right?" He began shuffling forward, cutting through the water as he said, "My magic is fully restored. I can heal it for you – "

"What are you doing?!" she blurted, staring at him with enormous eyes. The water level was getting more and more shallow the closer he got to the steps, and as such, it was revealing more of him than was…wise. She could see the edge of his hips, the hint of hipbone. Was he wearing anything at all?

Onmund paused, studied her face closely, and crossed his arms with a smile that he was trying very hard to suppress. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"You know," he murmured, "for the great and wondrous _Dragonborn,_ you're a bit…"

Her eyes narrowed further. "I'm a bit _what?"_

Onmund chuckled and wisely chose not to finish his sentence. _Prudish_ wasn't quite the right word, anyhow.

Rannve huffed and asked him, "So are there?"

He looked confused. "Are there what?"

"Are there any fish in that water?" she clarified, crossing her arms to mirror him and jutting her hip out. Onmund just shrugged and turned to gaze out over the expanse of the lake, and Rannve couldn't help but dip her eyes over the smooth planes of his back, lingering over surprising muscles she hadn't known he had. For a bumbling apprentice mage, he was… _enticing_.

And yet – Onmund was not a bumbling apprentice any longer. The man he'd been on the start of this mission was not the same man he was now. He had proven that to her many times over. He was on his way to being a renowned battlemage, if he wasn't crossing that threshold already.

She pulled her eyes back up as Onmund turned back to face her and said, "I think so. Too bad we don't have a net of some kind…"

Rannve just raised her eyebrows at him and drawled, "You're a mage, aren't you? Just use some electricity."

The suggestion made him gape at her. Hands on his hips and full chest on display (Rannve couldn't just ignore the sight, after all), Onmund repeated, "Electricity? Are you mad? We'd have more fish than we'd know what to do with, and besides, wouldn't that be wrong?"

For the Dragonborn, the lines between right and wrong were not so starkly defined. She stared at him for a long minute and then pointed out, "Perhaps. But think about our situation. We have no supplies, no weapons, no food. Hopefully the lift to the surface is in working condition, otherwise we'll have to go back through the ruins the way we came. Even if the lift is working, we have a long trek across the mountain ahead of us, and we can't survive on berries alone. We're going to starve if we don't restock our food stores."

Onmund stared at her. Well…she did make a good point, he supposed. He hadn't much thought about the return journey. He'd been so swept up in Blackreach that he had only allowed himself to consider one thing at a time. She was right though. They were already famished. The last meal either of them had was back in their cells in that damnable city, and who could say what food they might find in the mountains? Snowberries were all well and good, but they hardly provided much in the way of sustenance.

He sighed and agreed, "Okay. I really hope it doesn't draw attention to us, though."

Rannve hoped so, too, but it wasn't as if there was much else to eat around here. She didn't trust the glowing mushrooms or other sinister looking plants they had stumbled upon so far, and they hadn't come across any small animals that they might set traps for.

Onmund turned back to the steps and made his way to them, only for Rannve to awkwardly clear her throat and turn away, giving him what little privacy she could as he pulled his robes over his shoulders. He glanced at her as he did, mouth curling in amusement as he noted her stiff composure. He thought, briefly, about the kiss they'd shared when they were pressed up against their rocky alcove, and how she had unraveled for him so naturally, but – as much as he'd like to revisit that particular moment, he knew that it was not the time for it.

"Let me look at your throat," he suggested as he loosely clasped his robes in place. Her voice was still raspy and he'd bet his entire life savings (small as it was) that she was still in pain from using so many Shouts in such a short amount of time the day before.

He stepped closer to her and reached out, only for Rannve to purse her lips at him and mumble, "I'm fine."

She remembered all too well the rather wayward effects of his healing magic. After the impromptu kiss they'd shared only a few days before, she thought it better to just deal with the pain and let her throat heal naturally. She wasn't sure how wise it was to allow herself to grow too attached to Onmund. After all, she was living on borrowed time.

Onmund, though, just rolled his eyes and said, "It doesn't take that much magicka – "

"I'm _fine,_ Onmund," she repeated, more firmly this time. He sighed

"Alright then," he responded with a huff, and turned to the lake. Stubborn woman!

Kneeling down at the edge of the step, he focused on his magic. Rannve stood a few paces away, arms crossed as she watched him. His eyes slipped closed as he concentrated on his spell, and she studied his form quietly and without his notice as he bent over.

Talos, she didn't know how this had happened. When had she started to find him so damnable attractive, anyway? His robes were only loosely fixed, so that a portion of his bare chest was on display between the folds of fabric on his upper torso. The memory of his broad shoulders, wet from his dip in the lake, came roughly to mind, and Rannve clenched her jaw to suppress a shiver that threatened to take hold of her. She needed to focus on the matter at hand, not daydream about her companion like a virtuous maiden! If only the rest of her body would listen.

Onmund didn't even notice her plight. He was entirely concentrated on his spell. He didn't want to be too ambitious with the enchantment. The lake was connected to a series of waterfalls that were no doubt connected to many of the little streams and inlets they had traveled around on their trek across Blackreach. If he put too much power into the spell, the electricity would follow the path of the water and might attract the attention of the denizens of this place, or harm the plant life that was growing on the banks and in the crevices of the streams they had passed. So it was with care that Onmund summoned a lightning spell and sent it into the lake, dampening his magic so that the spell was very mild.

He wasn't entirely sure if it worked or not, but it did at least seem to do the trick when it came to its primary purpose. Mere minutes after casting the spell and sending electricity through the water, the surface of the lake began to break as dozens of fish floated up to it, bobbing in the water.

"Good work," Rannve told him, and Onmund smiled bashfully. His advanced grasp on his magic was still somewhat of a novelty to him, as was Rannve's compliments, which were few and far between.

"Is it safe to enter?" she asked, and he leaned back thoughtfully.

"It should be. Give it a minute to make sure the spell has worn off completely," he told her, and sat back on the top step. Rannve soon joined him, comfortably sitting down beside him as they watched more fish float to the surface.

"You know, I never thought I'd ever do anything like this," Onmund suddenly said, giving Rannve a sidelong glance.

She looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you referring to electrocuting fish, or going on an adventure with the Dragonborn herself?" Her tone was just arrogant enough to make him chuckle in exasperation.

"You _know_ what I'm referring to," he huffed at her, and nudged her arm with his elbow. "I mean, no one would ever believe me back home. They'd just say that I'm making the story up. Who could claim that they went into Blackreach with the Dragonborn and _survived?"_

Rannve gave him an affronted look and said, "Excuse me! I've survived way worse!"

He sent her a dry look. She was missing the point on purpose – something he picked up on based on the mischievous gleam currently occupying her gaze. After a moment, she chuckled and drawled, "I told you before. By the time we leave this place, you'll be a full-blown Battlemage. I was right, wasn't I? I usually am."

Onmund snorted at her arrogant words. "Well, I have you to thank for it all. I _have_ come pretty far since the beginning of it all."

And not only that, but he's seen so much that he never would have thought to ever see! Blackreach was a world in itself, but there was also the ruin of Alftand, and the sheer enormity of the Dwemer civilization. They had delved into the frozen ice fields to the north and across a mountain, and Onmund felt like an entirely different person than he was just a few weeks ago. It was a baffling thought.

Rannve glanced over at him and smiled. "This is only the beginning, for you. You'll have many more adventures after this one is over."

She made no mention of herself in those adventures, which Onmund noticed. He stared at her, wondering at her meaning and at the peculiar look on her face. There was something strangely resigned in her voice. Something sad.

"…You will, too," he hesitantly told her, peering at her carefully. But Rannve just laughed.

"Yes…I suppose my story isn't finished yet," she muttered, and cast her eyes to the lake. Her part wouldn't be over until she had met Alduin on the field of battle, and either destroyed him, or died trying. She wasn't the hero that this country liked to think she was, and perhaps it was her own sarcastic perspective, but she rather doubted that she'd survive the prophesized fight to come. In fact she had very little hope for herself in that regard.

Onmund didn't answer, though, for which she was grateful. Talking about her fate with Alduin was not a topic she much enjoyed, and besides, they had other things to consider for now. Such morbid considerations could be had later, preferably alone.

"Ah…I think the water should be safe now," Onmund said, carefully dipping a hand beneath the surface to test it. When he didn't feel any lingering sparks, he stood up and began to loosen his robes so as to reenter the lake and collect their spoils.

The sight of him pulling his robes off was…disconcerting, at best. Rannve cleared her throat, remembering the time she had accidentally walked in on Onmund in the bath back at The Frozen Hearth in Winterhold. He'd blushed like a maiden then, but now he was stripping himself down without blinking an eye! He'd certainly changed, she thought as she pointedly looked away. Where had her blushing mage gotten off to?

Onmund took one look at her and laughed, "Aren't you gonna help? There's a lot of fish. You're not making me do all the work, are you?"

He pressed back a smile at the light blush that captured her cheeks and folded his College robes, laying them on the stone pathway so that they wouldn't get wet. Then, stripped down to his smalls, Onmund walked into the water without a shred of hesitation and sent a crooked smile her way. Their eyes clashed, and the endearingly awkward way Rannve eyed him made him smile wider.

She pursed her lips and silently began to unbuckle her armor. He was right, after all – there was a lot of fish to gather – and it wasn't as if she was joining him for no reason! Besides, she'd never been particularly modest. It was just that Onmund was so…Talos, he was just far more attractive _without_ his robes.

He politely turned away as she stripped down to the clothes she wore beneath her armor, focusing his attention to the fish that floated nearby. When he heard the telltale sound of her entering the lake, he turned to glance at her…only for his mouth to run dry.

It wasn't as if she wasn't covered up, of course. She had her smalls on, as far as he could tell from where she stood, shoulder deep in the water. It was just – the _thought_ of her. The fact that she was wearing considerably _less_ than he'd ever seen. The way the water glistened on her bare shoulders and the fine arch of her neck. He swallowed and felt himself blush a little bit, despite his best efforts.

Rannve was steadfastly ignoring him, as usual. She turned her entire attention onto gathering the fish and tossing them up onto the stone steps. By the time Onmund could remind himself what self-control was, she had already created a small pile of them.

"So…what's the next step? We transcribe the lexicon and open that bronze orb? Are you sure the Elder Scroll is even in there?" he found himself asking, simply to cut through the awkward tension that had built up in the spaces between them. Conversation usually worked, right? Talos, he hoped so.

Rannve glanced at him out of her corner of her eye and shrugged, "That crazy old man seemed to think so. If he's wrong and sent us here for nothing, I'll personally go wring his neck myself."

Her eyes gleamed darkly at the thought of the trials they'd been through, and whether they had been necessary or not, and Onmund hurried to say, "Er – I'm sure he didn't send us here for no reason. He did say that he wanted the lexicon, right? I wonder what sort of information is in it."

Rannve just scoffed and breezily replied, "Who cares? The Dwemer were obsessed with hoarding their secrets. Too much work, if you ask me."

She grabbed a fish and hurled it to the stone with a little more force than necessary, sending it slapping against the wall and plopping back into the water. She narrowed her eyes at it as if she thought it was personally responsible for her problems.

Onmund just lightly said, "I bet Septimus would be over the moon right now, seeing all this fish." He chuckled, and Rannve was distracted enough to chuckle too, no doubt remembering all too clearly that crazy man's fish hoarding ways.

Her smile fell away when she realized that they were staring intently at each other though, and suddenly she forgot about Septimus entirely. No – all she could see was Onmund, broa shouldered, bare chested, steam billowing off the water and shrouding his form with an enticing amount of mystery. His face was smiling faintly at her, but his eyes – Talos, his eyes were so expressive, so clear. He looked at her as if he thought she was the most fascinating creature he'd ever met, and it was making her heart fumble in her chest.

It was…dangerous. Dangerous. She repeated the word to herself as she forced her eyes away from his, wading out into deeper water to reach the fish they had not yet gathered.

Behind her, Onmund just sighed. To be honest, he was getting a little tired of this push and pull. This blanketed desire was all well and good, but there had to be an end to it somewhere, right? Right. And as they finished gathering the fish and made their way back to the stone steps, he rather thought, for a moment at least, that said end was imminent.

They were just stepping out of the lake when Rannve slipped on the lower step, and she would have fallen right back into the water had Onmund not acted on reflex and caught her. He didn't plan it (really!). One moment she was about a foot away from him, and the next the force of his grasp pulled her right into his chest, face smashing against his collarbone rather uncomfortably. Of course, neither of them was uncomfortable when Rannve pulled back a bit and stared up at him with wide eyes.

It was those eyes that really did it – or at least, that's what Onmund would tell himself later. Those eyes that showed him the things she tried so hard to press away, that shone out with startling clarity as her surprise stripped away all her defenses. _Those eyes_ – Talos, those eyes.

He didn't know what he was even doing, or why, or how – but suddenly he leaned forward and captured her mouth with his, tipping her head back with the force of his kiss. His arms slid around her waist, bare and smooth. The press of her skin against his was incredibly satisfying, and even with the intrusion of the clothes they still had on it hardly made a difference. He could feel her against him, grasp her waist and press his fingers to the bare skin of it. And, when she abruptly moaned and kissed him back, he thought he might go crazy.

That kiss back in the alcove, that his thoughts had so revered? It was nothing compared to this.

Her hands grappled up his arms, bracing herself against him, grasping at his biceps as her lips moved wildly with his. She drew her fingers over his shoulders and chest, palming the planes of it as if she had wanted to do so for ages. Maybe she had – she'd never say. Onmund didn't particularly care if she did or didn't, just as long as she kept kissing him like this.

It was a firestorm. Her lips were embers that smoldered his body into dust, setting his veins to fire as he curled his body over hers and brought her closer. His hand moved up to cup her neck, pressing his thumb under her chin to tilt her head back further. He dragged her lower lip into his mouth and nipped at it, tongue skimming over her just so and dragging another moan from her throat. Talos, that moan – it was the perfect sound. He thought he'd never heard such a flawless noise in all his life.

He wanted more – so much more, always – but Rannve only turned her head and broke the kiss, gasping a little as she clung to his shoulders. He stared at her, half tempted to kiss her again just because, but there was something in her expression that he dared not challenge. So he just stood there, holding her, watching her, his breath coming out in harsh exhales that showed, all too clearly, how much he wanted her.

He knew she was feeling a similar burn of desire. It was plain as day in her expression and in the way she clutched at his shoulders and didn't move away from him. It was in her voice, too, even when she whispered, "We shouldn't, Onmund."

Even though they were still standing in the steaming water of this underground lake, her soft rejection was like a bucket of cold water that poured over him. He clenched his jaw and clutched her harder, roughly whispering, "Why not? You want me just as much as I want you. Don't you dare deny it, Rannve."

She just smiled, but it was a bitter smile, and it made him shiver in ways that were quite different than the shivers she had just been responsible for, minutes before.

"It doesn't matter what I want," she told him, pushing herself away from him. She frowned at him and said, "It would be…better if we keep our relationship strictly professional."

Better, for who? Not for her, she knew. It was difficult to say the words, but she knew she had to. As much as she wanted Onmund, in more ways than just the obvious, she knew better than to involve him in her life any more than he was already involved. It wouldn't end well, for either of them. It would only bring him heartache, and her bittersweet pain.

His eyes darkened angrily. He let go of her and stepped back, coldly walking up the stairs to grab his robes and throw them over his body. Only when he had belted them on did he turn, and when he did, Rannve wished she was blind to the disappointed anger in his eyes, and unfeeling to the way it made her heart shake. But – she was neither blind nor unfeeling, as much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, and when she saw the spin of hurt that lingered beneath his anger, she regretted ever putting it there to begin with.

"Fine then," he said lowly, voice bitter and heavy with resigned acceptance. "You are the _Dragonborn_ , after all. You can't be seen with a mage apprentice like me. I get it."

And with that, he turned on his heel and stomped up the stairs, not even stopping when Rannve said, "No, that's – Onmund!" He just stormed off, leaving her there on the steps with the pile of fish and plenty of regret to contend with.

And contend, she did. With a frown, she sighed and turned to her armor, buckling herself back into it. She went slowly, not all that keen on seeing him again so soon, and even after she was done she just sat there on the edge of the stone landing and stared broodily at the lake.

He was wrong. She hadn't rejected him because he was from the College of Winterhold, or because he was only an apprentice mage, or even because he was quite different from her usual warrior-like companion. She'd rejected him because of the way he looked at her, as if she was a Goddess that he would happily worship for the rest of his days. And while she might be interested in seeing just what sort of worship that entailed if it came from anyone else, Onmund was different. She would hurt him. It was inevitable. And when she did, which she would, he would be broken.

She was going to die. She knew she was. Alduin would kill her. She was not a great warrior like Gormlaith Golden-Hilt. She could never be so heroic and wholesome as that. No – she was selfish and egotistical, greedy and conceited. She couldn't be selfish with Onmund though. He deserved so much more.

And really, he did get it all wrong. He thought he wasn't good enough to be by the Dragonborn's side, but he was far better than anyone else she had ever met. The problem, in its entirety, was that soon enough there would be no one to be by her side at all, because she would be dead.

She truly believed it. She had resigned herself to her fate a while ago, when she finally agreed to meet with Delphine and begin her hunt for Alduin instead of running away from it all.

Where she was headed, there was no place for Onmund. And – even if there was, she would not allow him to remain by her side. It was far too dangerous, no matter how adept he had become with his magic. She was going to a place she would not wish for anyone: the cold embrace of death.


	42. Call Dragon

**A/N: In which Onmund and Rannve get their hands on the Elder Scroll, and Rannve accepts her fate.**

 **Guest: Thanks for the review! I have a lot of chapters already written out, so it's mainly just a matter of finding the time to sit down and update the story. Rannve has been a fun character to work with too! And Onmund's development has definitely been major, consider where he started out. I've had fun with that too. As for the steamy scene from last chapter, there will be another before the story ends that takes it a step further ;) Hope you enjoy this update!**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty Two | Call Dragon**

Onmund had been rejected before. Well, just once. The childhood sweetheart he had as a young man was actually completely one-sided. He'd been smitten by her, but she gave her attentions to another. Onmund had sulked for days, until he discovered quite by accident a tome of household incantations hidden in the bottommost corner of the basement, lost and forgotten. The moment he had opened the book, he'd forgotten all about that girl. That had been the day his love for magic overpowered his love for anything else.

Until now.

Arms crossed, Onmund stood near Rannve as she fiddled impatiently with the lexicon. The buttons she was haphazardly pressing were doing very little. They seemed to control the lenses on the ceiling, for one would swing down every time a button was pushed, but the random, uncalculated way she was doing it was making everything go haywire.

He bit his cheek and remained silent, battling with a very strong desire to tell Rannve to get out of the way and let him do this. It was delicate work and she was a brute. The vicious thought at least made him feel somehow better.

" _It would be better if we keep our relationship professional."_

…Though not a whole lot better, granted. Her words kept coming back and haunting him, like ghosts. It was frustrating.

They were both frustrated, it seemed. Rannve glowered at the pedestal and muttered, "This damn thing…" She pushed another button randomly and growled with impatience when it only reversed everything.

Onmund sighed and decided that it would probably be best to get her away from those buttons before she permanently jammed them or some such thing, and he put a hand on her arm to push her away.

"Let me try it," he told her, voice far softer than he wanted it to be. He wanted to yell at her for her idiocy and the stubborn way she ignored her own heart, and his as well. He wanted to insult her and snap at her and push her. But – he was far too gentle for that. His moderate nature would never allow it. So instead of shouting, he merely waved her to the side and took her place in front of the pedestals, peering down at the strange looking map he had seen before with a musing expression.

He studied it more in detail now, noting how the glowing blue dots connected with each other, and which ones did not, and then he turned his eyes to the ceiling curiously. The lenses were back in their original place, and nothing was amiss. He would have to slowly make his way through the buttons until it matched what he saw on the map, for surely it was a guide of sorts on the position of the lenses. With this in mind, he focused entirely on the puzzle before him, and Rannve focused entirely on him.

She had tried to talk with him, briefly, when she finally followed after him. An explanation had been on the tip of her tongue when she swung open the door and stepped inside. But Onmund had not been in the room at all. Upon searching for him, she found him in the lexicon room, pouring over the bronze pedestals. At her approach, the look he sent her could have made her heart stop, and not in a good way.

She hadn't realized Onmund could glare quite so effectively before. If it wasn't a glare directed solely at her, she might have been impressed.

"You're transcribing it?" she had asked as she stood somewhat awkwardly in the center of the stone path. Above her on the landing, Onmund had turned his attention back to the work at hand and didn't answer.

It was obvious that he was doing exactly that. She was thankful that she hadn't kept the lexicon with the rest of her belongings in the pack that she'd lost to the Falmer. Keeping it closer to her seemed to have been the _only_ good decision she'd made in the last few weeks.

And yet, as she stood beside him and watched him take over once again, Rannve had to admit that bringing him along _had_ been a good idea. His mind was far more scholarly than hers, and he seemed to know what he was doing for the most part. His movements were confident as he carefully drew the lenses further down with every push of the buttons, alternating between the four pedestals until they appeared to match the image on the glowing blue map that Rannve had previously ignored. He was more suited to this task than she was, a fact that was painfully apparent as she crossed her arms and watched him press the last button.

"There – that should do it," he muttered to himself, or so she assumed, as he certainly wasn't speaking to _her_.

There was a strange rumbling that shook the room as the final lense swept down. The moment they were all aligned, a great burst of light pulled through them, shining from one lense to the next until all of them were harnessing whatever Dwemer power was at hand. The light gathered on top of the bronze orb so brightly that Rannve almost could look upon it, but she dared not look away for fear that she might miss something.

This was, after all, a quest she did not want to forget, even if her heart currently balked at said memories.

The Dwemer civilization was full of intricacies and mystery, to such an extent that even Onmund could not explain with any precision how the light seemed to trigger the orb beneath them. All of the sudden, the bronze plates that covered the thing shifted, pulling apart. A great mechanical noise sounded through the entire chamber, until the entire surface of the orb fluttered back like waves parting in a vast ocean. From the waves of bronze came a structure that was lifted up, proudly standing beneath the lenses as their light shone brilliantly upon the object at the center of it. The object that Rannve had been hunting for months now.

She stared at the scroll with wide eyes, her breath shallow as her eyes swept over it. She could scarcely believe it!

"Divines," Onmund breathed, hands still resting on the pedestals as he leaned forward and stared, too. He'd half expected that there would be no reward at all waiting for them in this chamber. It seemed almost too easy.

"You did it, Onmund," Rannve whispered, and thoughtlessly put a hand on his arm as she stepped around him to walk down the path. In his shock at seeing an Elder Scroll a mere ten feet in front of him, he hardly remembered that he was supposed to be angry with her. Instead, he merely followed, until the pair of them were standing before the scroll, side by side.

Looking upon it now, Rannve's destiny seemed all too real. Her fate had been easy to sweep aside whilst she was hunting for the scroll, for a part of her had not actually thought she would ever find it. Yet now that she stared at the gilded bronze container which held the precious artifact and hid it from the ravages of time, suddenly all she could think of was Alduin.

That was, after all, the reason she was here, wasn't it? To learn the Dragonrend Shout that would allow her to overcome one of his biggest advantages over her – his power of flight. To pluck him from the sky itself and lead him into the end. Only…she didn't know whose end it would be. His, or hers?

"Aren't you gonna take it?" Onmund asked, tearing his eyes away from the scroll and turning them to Rannve. He was still angry with her, and hurt by the feeling of rejection that still swept through him, but now a vague, undefined worry also captured him. She was just staring at the thing, unmoving, barely breathing. Her eyes were tumultuous, like a sky that was just beginning to darken with the traces of a storm.

The question seemed to snap her out of whatever thought had dragged through her, for Rannve blinked and glanced at him. She hesitated, and then…

"I will," she murmured heavily, though it rather sounded as if she was talking about something entirely different.

He watched her reach out and clasp her hands around the container, lifting it carefully from its pedestal. The moment her fingers grasped the cool metal, a weight like none other pressed down upon her, and she knew that it had very little to do with the scroll itself. No – it was the weight of destiny, already sending her back to the earth. Dust to dust.

She didn't say a word as she unscrewed the lid of the container and peered in, checking to make sure that the scroll was indeed inside. She almost wished it wasn't. But – it was, and it seemed to whisper to her as her eyes alighted upon the rolled edges of it.

 _Alduin. Alduin. Alduin._

She all but threw the lid back on and twisted it back into place with harried fingers, eager to pull herself away from whatever strange magic coursed through the scroll. Or – perhaps it was just in her head, and she truly had gone crazy. She could not say.

Onmund watched her cautiously, knowing that there was something he was missing but not knowing what it was, or how to ask her about it. He studied her face closely, noting the paleness of it, the sudden shadows beneath her eyes that he hadn't seen before. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, and there seemed to be a wilderness about her now, as if she was seconds away from bolting off like a spooked deer.

"Well…we got what we came for," Onmund slowly began, unsure what else to say that would break her out of whatever daze she had put herself in.

It seemed to work well enough, for Rannve lifted her head from the scroll and immediately said, "Yes, we did. We should see if that lift is working. I'd like to breathe in fresh air again."

And that was all. Rannve loped back to grab the transcribed lexicon, twisted the container that held the Elder Scroll over her back, and made her way down the stone path without another word. And Onmund just stood there watching her retreat, feeling suddenly more alone than he had ever felt in his entire life.


	43. Clear Skies

**A/N: In which Rannve explains.**

* * *

 **Forty Three | Clear Skies**

She couldn't remember ever feeling so awkward around Onmund, even as they gathered a portion of the fish and packed them away, packed up the rest of their belongings (few as they were), and made their way to the lift that would hopefully take them back to the surface. The air between them was tense, and it got tenser by the minute. Worse still, Rannve had no idea what to do about it.

What could she possibly say to him that would make everything better? That would explain her need for distance? Even as she pulled the lever of the lift and felt the floor drop away from them, vaulting them back up to the crisp mountain air, she could think of nothing.

Thankfully, the lift was in perfect condition. It spat them back out within minutes, and suddenly it seemed as though Blackreach and all that it encompassed had never existed to begin with. She squinted at the brightness of the clear sunlight, which had eluded them for weeks now, and had to rub her eyes as a headache began forming behind them. The sudden onslaught of light was ultimately what had them stumbling out of the lift, pushing the bronze gates open blindly as their eyes adjusted to the world around them.

After spending so many weeks in darkness, where the air itself seemed close and each inhalation was filled with dust and stone, breathing in the crisp mountain air was incredibly satisfying. Rannve took deep breaths of it, filling her lungs with the cold breeze, enjoying the snap of snowflakes that brushed over her cheeks and mouth. It tasted like freedom – the one thing she had been trying and failing to grasp since finding out about her apparent destiny. And, as ever, it did not last. The weight of the Elder Scroll against her back was a constant burden, effectively dragging her from the illusion of her own freedom before she could truly take hold of it.

As their eyes adjusted, they began to look around. There was no way of knowing where they were, exactly. From the icy wind and the far reaching peaks that spiraled high above them, it seemed as though they were still on the mountain. The question was, what part of the mountain, and how far were they from civilization?

The good news, at least, was that there was a camp set up nearby – some long abandoned site that had clearly not been used for years, if not longer. There were a few tents set up in a half-circle, covered with furs and tied to stakes set into the ground. A circle of stones, mostly covered in snow, hinted at the ancient remains of a fire. And, to Rannve surprise, there was a wooden chest in one of the tents, pressed to the edge of the interior and filled with furs.

"Thank Talos!" she exclaimed, pulling the furs out with already frozen fingers. Even their Nordic blood wouldn't stand a chance in these cold temperatures for long. She pulled them all out. Even their musty smell wouldn't dissuade her pleasure at finding them.

Onmund entered the tent just as she was rolling them up, tying them together with a few cords that were laying around the space. He raised his eyebrows at the furs and wondered, "I don't suppose you've found anything else in there? Maybe some flint?"

Rannve just scoffed and arrogantly patted the small leather satchel she always wore at her hip. "Please. No adventurer in their right mind would keep their flint in their packs. I've got plenty left."

Onmund just gave her a dry expression and snapped, "Well good. Then why don't you make a fire? I doubt I can cast with my fingers frozen." As he ducked angrily out of the tent, Rannve pursed her mouth. He was still upset, then.

She didn't make a fire, though. Instead, she began taking apart one of the tents for their return journey, knowing that they'd be thankful for the protection later on, despite the extra carrying weight. Then when she was finished, Rannve nodded forward, and Onmund sighed and followed her lead as they began to walk.

They walked for hours, until the dusky sunset began to trickle over the landscape and the sky began to darken. And only then did Rannve stop, tired and hungry from their long trek through the mountainous terrain and quite ready to get some sleep. Onmund said nothing as he helped her get their borrowed tent up. They worked in total silence, with only the blustering wind as company, as if the other did not exist. Once the tent was staked into the ground and the furs strewn inside, Rannve began hunting for some firewood. They had made it far enough down the mountain to find some without much trouble, and had a fire going soon after with the help of the flint Rannve kept tucked into her small satchel.

Onmund busied himself with preparing a few of the fish they had lugged down the mountain with them, staking them on a few sticks he'd found beneath a nearby pine tree and propping them up by the fire to cook. Then, with nothing else to do, he fell silent and gloomily stared at the fire as the sky darkened to night and the constellations began to stretch out their stories amid the light of the twin moons.

Rannve fell silent, too, waiting for the fish to cook so that she could at least do something instead of awkwardly sitting a stone's throw away from the man she happened to find extremely attractive (for reasons she still didn't fully grasp). It was a torture in and of itself. She honestly had no idea how their relationship had fallen so low in such a short amount of time.

As she considered this, Rannve slowly said, "…Onmund – "

But he just skewered her with a sharp look and said, "Don't bother, Rannve. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

She stared at him with raised eyebrows, and he just returned his glower back to the fire, hunched over against the cold winds. With a frown, she turned to look at her hands. From the sound of his voice, she thought that she very much _did_ need to explain herself, thank you very much. She didn't much _want_ to, but he didn't deserve the cold brush off she was inadvertently giving him with her continued silence.

"It isn't as though I don't want to see where this is going – " she began, searching for the words that might rectify the present situation, or at the very least offer some balm to his smarting feelings. Feelings that she had unwittingly bestowed upon him with her gentle rejection deep in the heart of Blackreach.

But Onmund truly did not want to listen to her explanation, for he adamantly said, "I understand. You're the Dragonborn and I'm…I'm a fool." He grasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles blanched white. He didn't look away from the fire, and as such, he didn't see the surprised look that Rannve sent him, as if she could hardly believe his words.

With a wry twist of her lips, Rannve murmured, "Well, I _am_ the Dragonborn, and you _are_ a bit foolish, sometimes." She meant the words as a joke, really – nothing more. She didn't happen to deal with honesty very much, and didn't have much experience when it came to speaking of her feelings from any level of sincerity. That said, she opened her mouth to go on, thinking that she might claim that it was his foolishness that captured her interest in him from the very start, and that she happened to love that part about him most of all, but Onmund did not give her the opportunity.

He scowled and muttered, "I'm glad we're in agreement."

The tone of his voice made her falter. She rubbed a hand over her forehead and cleared her throat, silently berating herself from her callous words and wishing she could take them back.

"You _don't_ understand, Onmund," she said staunchly, spearing him with a look that she wished he would return, but he didn't. He merely stared at the fire as if he hoped that this entire conversation would just fall away so that he could retain at least a little bit of his dignity. She wasn't trying to take his dignity though – she was trying to make him _see_.

"Well then explain it to me, if you must," he snapped, finally breaking his gaze from the fire to glare at her. The expression was so intense that Rannve stumbled, swallowing her words as she studied the angry splinter of his eyes. The crystal blue of them seemed dark and foreboding in the light of the flame, storming with errant emotion that lingered on hurt.

She didn't like to see it there, in the crease of his eyes.

With a sigh, she murmured, "I'm the Dragonborn. The savior of Skyrim. Alduin waits for me, and when I find him, I – "

"You're the Dragonborn, yes I know that!" he ground out, expression turning even darker. "As if you'd ever let me forget! When you defeat Alduin, you'll be the hero of Tamriel. You'll be more famous than you are now." He clenched his hands in his lap and spitefully muttered, "You'll have kings falling at your feet, wealth beyond measure. Well don't worry. I won't get in your – "

She couldn't explain why her anger suddenly roiled up from the darkness of her soul, why it crackled into the air as Onmund spoke. Only she knew that suddenly, she couldn't hope to contain it. It blistered through her like a wound, and suddenly Rannve was on her feet, cutting him off as she spat, _"I'm going to die, Onmund!"_

And the words were so sudden and so loud, their meaning far more serious than Onmund had anticipated, that he could only stare at her with his mouth hanging open, shocked at the barely contained emotion that splintered through her face and leaked into her voice.

"When I find Alduin, I'm going to die! I'm not a hero. I don't care about the rest of humanity! I'm not cut out for this saving the world business!" she snarled, hands clenching at her sides. She wished she hadn't lost her sword to the denizens of Blackreach, for it would at least give her something to hold onto right about now, if nothing else. But as it was, she felt helpless and hopeless, as if she was floating in a void of nothingness, forced to come face to face with the very demons that had plagued her for longer than she cared to admit.

"No," she laughed cuttingly, staring down at Onmund with hard eyes. "There is nothing that awaits me upon defeating Alduin. No kings or riches. If I am lucky, and die with some honor, then the only reward I will receive is entrance into the halls of our forefathers."

Onmund stared at her. She stared back. And then her anger drained away at her outburst, leaving her exhausted, as if she had not slept in months. In a begrudging voice, she muttered, "Don't you understand? I cannot give you what you want, Onmund. It isn't mine to give." She paused, and added, "I belong to a prophecy, and once that prophecy is fulfilled, there won't be any part of me to give away anyhow."

She turned to the tent, hoping for some privacy to rebuild her scattered mind and put some of her wild emotions back in order. But before she could disappear, Onmund quietly said, "You don't know that."

She stiffened and looked over at him, only to find that he was staring at her with soft eyes. It was such a startlingly different expression from the one he had only just been wearing that she felt her legs shake, as if she was seconds from falling. It occurred to her, then, that perhaps she had already fallen. Perhaps she just hadn't realized it until now.

Onmund stood up and turned to face her fully. The firelight cast over his expression with gentle ambiance. His voice, too, was gentle when he said, "Your death isn't a part of the prophecy, Rannve. You don't know what will happen."

She was shaking her head before he had even finished, though, and responded with a dull, "I told you already. I'm not a hero."

But he just crossed his arms and challenged, "And does the prophecy specifically say that the Last Dragonborn will be a hero of men? What makes a hero, anyway? How do you know that you're not one?"

She stared at him, a little baffled at his sudden line of questions. He was speaking as if he was unraveling some arcane mystery back at the College, when they used to meet together in the Arcanaeaum to do their assignments. And, like before, the depth of his words was lost to her. She was black and white, but he was a tumble of overlapping realities, all grey and endless.

She shook her head at him and responded, "It doesn't matter. I've never had any delusions that I'd survive the battle with Alduin. He's…far too great an enemy."

His wings were storms that beat upon the earth like drums. His voice fire and chaos too ageless to overcome. Her own Voice would fall like rain upon him, so far outmatched they were. He, the First-Born; she, the Last. An age separated them, and with the long stretch of time brought an inconceivable expanse of inexperience and callowness. She was a child compared to him; a mere barrier that would be thrown away with an errant breeze.

But Onmund – he shook his head and adamantly said, "You're the only one who can defeat him, Rannve. You're the Dragonborn, which gives you a distinct advantage against him." She sent him a raised eyebrow and he leaned in to impatiently say, "Your _mind,_ you stubborn woman! You're human _and_ dragon in one. You have two worlds to draw form. He only has one."

She only sighed, not understanding, and muttered, "It doesn't matter. I've already accepted my fate. I'm only telling you this because – Onmund, if I wasn't the Dragonborn, if I had the chance at a normal life…I would want you to be a part of it. Somehow, in some way. You must believe me."

The sincerity behind her words seemed to take him aback. He stared at her in surprise, and she stared back at him as she waited for him to grasp her honesty with that clever mind of his. She knew he did, when a quiet smile, humorless but peaceful, spread over his face. The sadness of his eyes counteracted that smile, but even despite it, it made Rannve's soul – human and dragon – warm like a blaze of embers.

"I believe you," he quiet told her, and stepped forward.

This time, she did not stop him from pulling her into his arms. He pressed his face against her hair and inhaled the scent of her, as if he was trying to press his understanding into her skin.

And Rannve – she just grasped him tightly, shivering. She wasn't shivering because of the cold, but rather from the desperate wish that she could have been with him, somehow, if only she did not have such a heavy burden of fate cast upon her shoulders, dragging her down with terrible force and reminding her that her heart was not hers to give away.


	44. Circle of Protection

**A/N: In which they end up in Windhelm, and Onmund remembers that Rannve is the Dragonborn.**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty Four | Circle of Protection**

They made it down the mountain in a matter of days, thankfully not getting lost (too much) as they went. By the end of the week, they had hit a main road, and Rannve had taken one look at it and began leading him confidently down it as if she had walked this way countless times. When they passed a road marker that told Onmund they were going in the opposite direction, though, he wondered if she remembered that they were supposed to be on their way to Winterhold. Which was to the north. Not the south.

"Um. Where are we going?" he asked her, feeling a bit helpless as she took the lead. He was slightly useless when it came to adventures and all they entailed, including direction.

Rannve, though, just shrugged. "Windhelm," was her answer, said so breezily and with such little concern that he could only flap his mouth at her in shock.

When he finally found his voice, he spluttered, "Windhelm? _Why?_ We're supposed to be on our way back to the College!"

The awkward rift between them had healed, for the most part, from Rannve's admission several nights before, but there was still a strange chasm between them. Perhaps only Onmund could feel the distance that laid out between their two souls, but he felt it strongly. It was uncrossable, almost, as if he had no hope of convincing her that her worries could very well be wrong. That she might just live to see Alduin's defeat, and the world that would blossom as a result. That – perhaps, all was not hopeless after all, and that they might even have that chance that Rannve was so convinced was lost to them.

In all honesty, it was aggravating to him. While Onmund was quiet, for a Nord, and more understanding of the finer intricacies of life, he still had the hot-blooded drive that his brethren had. That Rannve would not give in, even a little bit, to the feelings she clearly felt for him was…disappointing. He had come to understand her perspective despite his misgivings, but it still frustrated him. After all, if one had only limited time left, didn't that make it even more imperative that the life in question was lived to its fullest?

She didn't agree with the notion. She seemed to think that it would be better not to cross that boundary at all; to keep their relationship, and their feelings, dampened entirely, like they were wayward stars that did not belong to any one constellation, forever ignored in favor of the other, brighter ones.

He had tried to convince her otherwise several times, but Rannve was the most stubborn person he knew. She had only sighed at him and told him that she wished things were different, while giving no indication that she meant to do anything at all to change it. It aggravated him to no end, but there was little he could do about it.

Ahead of him, Rannve called, "We are on our way to the College. We're just taking a small detour first."

He hardly considered a trip into Windhelm to be a small detour, which he quickly told her. He had gotten much braver with his words as well as his actions since the onset of this journey, and he had little trouble in arguing with her despite the fact that he knew she would find some way to contradict him. She seemed to live for the final word.

" _A small detour?"_ he questioned with no small amount of exasperation. "We're going miles off course!"

But Rannve only responded, "We need supplies. Do you know how many bandits like to take unsuspecting travelers off guard? Besides, I want a warm meal."

Bandits and a warm meal? Onmund sighed, but knew better than to make a fuss about it. She did have a point, after all. They were almost out of the fish they'd brought from the lake in Blackreach, and the ones they had left were starting to smell a little off. Plus Onmund didn't know how much longer he'd be able to take sleeping on those musty old furs, as lucky as they were to have stumbled upon them.

Luckily they were not very far away from Windhelm. When they entered the city gates late next morning, the bustle of life that waited for them took Onmund off guard a little. He was out of his element in this busy city. The family farm he'd grown up on had been very sparsely populated, and the College had fewer applicants each year, it seemed. He wasn't used to crowds.

But Rannve was. She maneuvered around the bustle with innate grace that hinted at a worldliness Onmund did not have, and he stumbled to keep up with her as people cut him off and then turned to give him distrustful glances after he'd accidentally bump into them. Ah, yes, the merits of being a Nord mage. He had forgotten how few said benefits were.

"My house is this way," Rannve called over to him, glancing back just as a tall, fierce looking Nord collided into his shoulder and sent him stumbling. Her words were drowned out when the Nord turned to Onmund and scowled, eyeing his College robes with a peculiar sort of disdain bred entirely of blatant suspicion. Magic-users were certainly not looked upon very fondly in most of Skyrim, but it seemed that Windhelm took it to the next level.

With a glower that rather reminded Onmund of Urag's menacing frown, the Nord spat, "Watch where you're going, mage." Onmund, shocked at the disrespect, stood there staring at him with his mouth flapping open. The expression seemed to make the Nord angrier, for he stepped into Onmund's space and growled, "Got something to say, you dimwitted necromancer?"

Onmund's face turned an angry red at the insult, but before he could start an argument Rannve stormed over and clasped the Nord's shoulder, roughly pulling him around to face her.

"Move along, Rolff, before you regret it," she told him firmly, eyeing the man with dark eyes.

The clear threat in her voice seemed to do the trick, though, for the man put his hands up in a gesture of surrender and said, "Alright, alright, Dragonborn, whatever you say. Just keep your mage on a tighter leash. We don't need no mages to add to the scum of this place." Then, mumbling, he added, "This city's dirty enough as it is…"

Onmund was shocked at the disparaging comment, but Rannve only calmly said, "Come on, Onmund," and turned without saying anything further.

He wasn't sure what was worse: that he'd just been insulted in such a rude way, or that Rannve could so easily wave it off. Scowling, he went to follow. He'd only taken two steps, though, before the Nord snorted, "Yeah, listen to your master, mage."

His anger returned at full force, blistering up inside of him like a storm, and Onmund turned to snap at him. To his surprise, though, Rannve twisted back around and snarled, "Move along before I _make_ you, Rolff."

There was something quite shocking about Rannve's anger. Perhaps it was the backdrop of it, the way it coiled in these city streets, around people who knew her and respected her titles. Perhaps it was merely Onmund's own heart, that burst into the very same endearing warmth he had fought with for months now wherever she was concerned. All he knew was that she suddenly looked like the Dragonborn, not Rannve. She looked like a Thane and a Lady and a Warrior Maiden. Like everything he had imagined her to be before he had met her and found out the truths of her character and how human she really was.

He wasn't quite sure what to think. A part of him wanted to grin at her defensive tone and the fact that she was using it for him. Another part, however, balked at the thought of her sudden display of power. That part of him was the part that often drowned in the presence of the Dragonborn – that silly, errant hero-worshiping part of him that made Onmund wonder why she was even defending him at all, bumbling mage that he was.

Rolff frowned at her but didn't say anything further, instead wisely choosing to amble off instead of get into an argument with the fabled Dragonborn. Her name had power. Her very presence seemed to ooze it, when it suited her to use it to its full extent. And right now, it did. No one insulted her mage like that and got away with it.

As she darkly watched the Nord walk away, Rannve muttered, "As I was saying, my house is this way."

And then she turned and started in the opposite direction, and Onmund was left to hurry after her, feeling more like a dog than a man in wake of her lithe footsteps. Thankfully, though, they had no other problems. Rannve seemed to know the city fairly well, for she took a quieter path that few seemed to use, leading him between stone buildings that rose up into the sky.

Onmund had never been to Windhelm before. He'd never been anywhere, really. The sights and sounds were fascinating to him as they passed grand houses and intricate gardens. He assumed they were heading into a wealthier part of the city, for the buildings looked expensive and large, and the few people he saw walking around were dressed very finely.

They didn't bat an eye at the sight of Rannve, but they did glance at Onmund. Their gazes were confused and a little bit disparaging, as if they were wondering what he was doing by her side. By the time they reached what must have been her house, he was starting to wonder that, too.

His doubts hit him rather hard in the chest when Rannve stopped in front of a very grand, very large building and ambled up the front steps of it as if she owned it. And, when she began patting at a few pockets, grumbling to herself before producing an old iron wrought key, Onmund realized that she _did_ in fact own this house.

He swallowed, casually looking at the home and comparing it to the others on the street. It seemed to tower over them imposingly with its tall structure and stained glass windows. Traditional Nordic markings were intricately carved above the door, painstakingly transforming the wood with a series of knots and lines. A well tended garden took up the sides of the house, spanning out of sight as it curved around the back of it. Even the _vegetables_ seemed to ooze wealth.

"Are you coming or not?" Rannve demanded suddenly, and Onmund's attention crashed back to the present. She was waiting for him in the threshold, having finally unlocked the door after much aggravated mumbling, and he could just barely see into the foyer of the home from where he stood. Even his small glimpse made him balk.

"Erm…yes, of course," he muttered, ducking his head as he entered the place.

Rannve shut the door behind them, tossing the key haphazardly onto a nail that was hammered near the door, and shouted, "CALDER!"

A sudden clank of armor sounded through the quiet house, alerting Onmund to another's presence as heavy footsteps approached. His eyes were quickly drawn to a fierce looking warrior who stood in full regalia, axe included, as the man stepped into the room.

"My Thane. I wasn't expecting you," the man said bluntly, and Rannve snorted.

"When do you ever?" she dryly wondered, making the man chuckle.

Onmund watched the exchange silently, feeling distinctly uncomfortable in this place. It had looked quite large from the outside, but inside it felt like a castle. The ceilings were high and vaulted, showing off a classical Nordic construction that spoke of wealth and power. The surfaces showed off objects that made his throat close up – gleaming things that looked like they were worth more than him. He even saw what looked like a jeweled ship on the large mantle, its golden surface glittering in the light.

He felt very…out of place.

"This is Onmund. We'll be staying the night and then leaving in the morning. I'm sure he'd like a bath," Rannve said, casting an inquisitive glance his way. She didn't give him time to accept or refute the offer and just added, "We'll want some supper too, Calder."

The man's only response was a grunt, but Rannve hardly blinked an eye at it. She sent Calder a wide smirk and chuckled, "You're better than half a dozen maids, Cal. Don't ever leave me, I'd be lost without your cooking."

Onmund balked at that, too, but he retained his silence. What sort of relationship did she have with this man, anyway? Why did they live together? He found himself rather disliking the thought.

Finally, Rannve turned her attention to Onmund and said, "This is Calder, my Housecarl. Sworn to protect, and all that. All I care about is that he makes the best rabbit stew I've ever had. Come on, I'll show you around. This place is pretty huge, isn't it?"

Her tone was overall quite breezy, as if she was commenting on a cloudy sky and not her own wealth. To be honest, though Rannve appreciated having plenty of niceties (she did like glittering things), it was the power and the prestige that she liked most of all. She didn't need this manor – it was just an added benefit to her becoming Thane.

Onmund, again, remained silent as he followed Rannve upstairs. He kept his mouth firmly shut as she led him through the ornate halls, passing more traditional Nordic carving that seemed to cover every doorway. It was only when she pushed open one of those doors that she stopped, waving her hand for him to enter the room. He did, and swallowed tightly at the very comfortable, very expensive furnishings inside.

"Did the Jarl give you this place when he named you Thane?" he found himself asking, and then cringed at the question. It was rather rude, really, asking after such a thing, but he couldn't help himself.

Rannve only shrugged and lightly said, "No, I bought it. I've got places in most of the cities. I'm surprised you don't know about that, considering your stalking tendencies."

At this, his face turned a lovely shade of red and he spluttered, "I do not _stalk_ you."

Rannve laughed. She put a hand on his shoulder and gently said, "I was only teasing, Onmund. There's a washroom down the hall. I'll have Calder get some water ready. My room is a bit further down. Just so you know." It was _her_ turn to cringe. Just so he knew? Talos! It sounded like she had just prepositioned to him in an altogether round-about fashion. She cleared her throat and hastily added, "If you…need anything, that is."

Onmund stared at her, then chuckled. "Alright."

They fell into a strange, awkward silence that had them both shuffling a bit on their feet, until Rannve cleared her throat and murmured, "I'll be downstairs then. I'll let you know when that stew is ready."

He watched her make a hasty retreat and found himself chuckling again at the sight of her, despite the discomfort that still pressed against his heart at being in such a lovely place. He couldn't help it – he had never been around such wealth in all his life, and the thought of being in the _Dragonborn's_ _home_ , sleeping in one of her beds, using her bathtub – it was making him a little dizzy.

He couldn't really be blamed for having such feelings, could he? It was, after all, something straight out of a dream. Or – a fantasy.

The thought made his cheeks flare up brightly, and he cleared his throat, pursing his lips at his wayward imagination. That was a dangerous road to go down, especially since Rannve had already convinced herself that it was not a path she could follow.

But even the most stubborn of hearts could not truly be dissuaded from fate's urging hands, and even though this particular brush of fate was not an expected course, it still lingered there in the expanses of their future, silent and inaudible, waiting until it was time to make itself known.

That time was fast approaching.


	45. Flame Thrall

**A/N: In which Onmund takes a bath, and one thing leads to another...**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty Five | Flame Thrall**

After dinner, Onmund retreated to the washroom to make use of the bath that Calder had prepared. He was eager to scrub away the dirt from the road and to warm his body of the seemingly constant chill that had clung to him for days now. As he stripped off his College robes and entered the tub, it occurred to him how many places he'd actually been in the course of two months. Trekking across mountains, delving into Alftand, exploring Blackreach itself – until finally, he was here, in the Dragonborn's manor, taking a bath as if it was no great thing.

Onmund tipped his head back and sighed, staring up at the high ceilings. He vaguely wondered if all of Rannve's houses were as grand as this one. She did say that she had one in nearly every city, after all. He wondered if she had more of those manly Housecarls, too. He knew the thought was childish and jealous, and he sighed again. He hadn't seen any hint of attraction between Rannve and Calder during dinner. Rannve had spent a great deal of time alternative between teasing Calder and getting him caught up on the latest news regarding her quest, but her eyes did not warm with the same fire that they did when she looked at Onmund. He _did_ notice that much.

Mind drifting to her, he closed his eyes and pondered what he could do about their current situation. Despite her being the Dragonborn and have a significant duty as a result, Onmund rather thought she was just being stubborn for the sake of it. He pursed his mouth as his thoughts drifted to the kiss they had shared on the steps of the lake on their final day in Blackreach. A bracing shiver rushed through him at the memory of her skin pressed to his, and he groaned a little as he tipped his head back and felt the fire of his desire smolder through him once more.

Was there ever an end to it? It seemed to catch him off guard in the least opportune times…yet, he decided as he reached down to wrap his fingers around himself, it was perhaps not the _worst_ moment to indulge himself…

A rumbling moan swept through him as he fisted himself, spreading his thighs and jerking at his arousal with quick pulls. The image of Rannve clouded over him. He imagined them back at that lake, but instead of breaking off the kiss, they kept going – groping and moaning until the flimsy remains of their clothes were floating away from them, leaving them bare, skin glistening, faces flushed –

A sudden noise shattered through the thin layer of peace he had cultivated in the room, and with a startled jerk, Onmund sat up straight and hurriedly glanced to the door. It was still closed, thank the Divines, but there seemed to be a commotion coming from downstairs, for he heard another muffled cluttering noise a few moments later. With a muttered curse, he decided that this moment might not have been as ideal as he'd thought.

He was stiff with arousal, so much so that it was almost painful to release his hands from his length as he removed himself from the tub. The water was lukewarm now anyway. He'd been in there for a while, and it would've been even longer if he'd continued what he had been doing.

With a grimace, he reached for the towel on a nearby table, intent on dealing with this problem at the first opportunity. It wasn't like he had any other choice. He couldn't very well walk around like this, and besides, he had to get it out of his system. He had to get _her_ out of his system.

His fingers had just barely brushed the fabric of the towel when the door burst open. With a start, Onmund jumped back, eyes darting to the door as his face flushed a bright red. For there, standing in the threshold, was the very woman he had just been fantasizing about.

She was staring at him with huge eyes that got wide the further down his body they traveled. And _Talos!_ – when her gaze locked onto the erect jut of his arousal that was on full display between his thighs, Onmund thought he might die of the embarrassment. This _was_ _not_ what he wanted. This was…Divines, he was horrified.

"…I just…wanted to tell you that…Calder went out to Candlehearth to buy some mead…it you wanted a…a drink," Rannve stuttered, and then seemed to finally realize that she was staring rather rudely at a part of his anatomy that she really shouldn't be staring at and lifted her eyes back up to his with a fierce blush.

His face felt like it was on fire. Onmund quickly grabbed the towel and covered himself, wrapping it around his waist with fumbling, shaking fingers. He dared not look at her. Keeping his eyes firmly on the floor, he hoarsely mumbled, "Yes…alright. Thank you."

He received no reply. Rannve was a little busy trying to control her breathing to form words. Her heart was a tornado in her chest, and her body felt like it might combust at any second. A fire like no other had taken root within her. The sight of him standing there, completely bare and completely aroused, made her body pulse with a need so strong that she could only drown against the door and bite her tongue.

He was beautiful. She wanted to see him bare again. As soon as possible.

Instead she breathlessly said, "I should…go."

Her heart berated her for the words, and her body didn't listen to the logic of them. She didn't move an inch, and she couldn't stop her eyes from delving over his form again. Her desire shone clearly in her eyes. She looked almost hungry – for him.

Onmund didn't notice at first, as he was trying so hard not to look at her. His embarrassment was so great that he thought he might prefer jumping right back into Blackreach over having her reject him in the way he was bracing himself for. She had already rejected him so many times that for her to do so now would be a terrible thing that he wasn't sure he'd live through. His dignity was in pieces on the floor, broken into shards that he knew he could never repair. Those were the thoughts that swept through him, anyway, until he bolstered up his courage and hesitantly lifted his eyes to hers.

But what he saw in her gaze did not follow the same course as those thoughts. In fact, they seemed to go directly against them.

Rannve was staring at him as if she wanted to devour him. Her eyes were dark with tumultuous desire. Face flushed, lips parted, fingers clenching the doorknob so tightly that her knuckles were white. She looked like she was seconds from throwing herself at him, and didn't look embarrassed about it at all.

He stared at her in subdued surprise, clenching his towel tightly as the full force of his own desire hit him square in the chest. It all swept down to his erection, and the need to take himself into his hand again was almost overpowering. He was so aroused that it was painful.

"Yes…you should," he told her, gently trying to remind her that this was her choice, after all. She had decided a long time ago that they couldn't be together. It was her own stubbornness that kept them apart. Yet his eyes said something else entirely as they stared into hers, and he knew she heard those silent words as clear as day.

He watched her swallow tightly, shifting a little against the door. Her grasp on the doorknob did not loosen. She just kept staring at her with that hungry fire that made his own arousal splutter through him with renewed force.

"Calder will be back soon," she reasoned, her voice a mess of need that made Onmund breathlessly exhale. He wondered if she even knew what she was doing to him, even now. As her eyes darted over his body again, he figured she at least had some inclination.

Swallowing back a wave of raw desire, Onmund clenched the towel harder and lowly murmured, "I guess I should get dressed then."

In all rights, his voice should still be full of awkwardness and embarrassment, but Onmund's low tones seemed to reflect a much more confident feeling. He wasn't sure where it came from – what part of him conjured such assurance – but he saw the way Rannve's eyes flashed at his words. She looked as though the mere idea of him putting more clothes on was far worse than any other pursuit they could be even now engaged in.

When she said, "That would probably be a…good idea," she didn't mean it and he knew it. They seemed to be dancing a dance that was part reluctance, part wild desire, and every word and every action sang out a tune that was as changeable as an ocean wave crashing back and forth upon a shore.

He stared at her with eyes so dark that Rannve was lost to them, and in turn, she looked back at him as if the very current of time had halted, and all her fated burdens along with it.

And then, as if that wave vaulted back with all the force of the ocean in its surge, Rannve bolted forward and met Onmund in the crescendo of it.

Their kiss was as wild and as raw as tempered steel hammered beneath the blazing fires of an enormous forge. And – the forge was their souls, catapulting into the other with sighs of long-denied release.

He raised his hands to clutch her upper arms, as in doing so, quite forgot about the towel that he had loosely held around his waist. It dropped to the floor with the softest swish, and with it, the clattering thud of every previous rejection and harrowing contradiction fell in its wake.

The gasp that left Rannve's throat then was enough to make him drag her against him, hands grasping her rear and pressing his length against her. She moaned quite enthusiastically at the move, clutched onto his bare shoulders, and breathily said, "Onmund, _Talos_ – "

He cut her off with a swift, hard kiss, his mouth crushing hers as her hands darted down his body. The path of her touch left pleasure blossoming through his skin like wayward caresses made entirely of fire – the likes of which he could barely take. And when her fingers slipped around his length and very liberally felt him, Onmund could only bury his head against her neck and moan. As for Rannve, well, she couldn't stop even if she wanted to. Which, as it so happened, she did not.

His hips shuddered against her hand, pleasure swooping through him like a whirlwind. His fingers scrabbled at her clothes, pulling and pushing fabric away, dragging his lips over each revelation of skin. He couldn't get enough of her, and Rannve seemed equally as impatient. When he fumbled with the buttons of the tunic she had thrown on before, she merely pulled it all over her head in one tug, too far gone to concern herself over the intricate fastenings.

"Mm…how long do we have?" he heard himself ask, trembling against her. Her Housecarl would no doubt be home soon. It wasn't that far a walk to Candlehearth Hall, the local tavern. He wasn't sure how much he liked the thought of someone else being privy to what they were about to do.

But Rannve just pulled back, challenging him with fierce eyes as she stepped towards the door, just as bare as him. His eyes swooped down over her body, viewing her for the first time, and it felt like his need for her had grown tenfold in mere seconds. He was so distracted that he barely heard her next words.

With a sinful smile, she murmured, "We have all night."

Then eyes darting up to clash with hers, Onmund felt himself smile. Rannve just smirked back and held out of a hand for him. He said nothing as he reached for her, but his eyes spoke volumes – and what they had to say only grew more and more as they tumbled to Rannve's bedroom, bodies pressed diligently and sweeping each other up with kisses too wild to put into words.


	46. Invisibility

**A/N: In which Onmund takes his leave.**

 **ArcanaAcid: Oddly enough, it's Onmund who does the overthinking this time around lol. Glad you enjoy the story - thanks again for all the reviews! There's only a couple more chapters left before the end, so I hope you continue to enjoy the read.**

 **Desert: ;D**

 **theawesomest 5: Well I did something slightly different with this chapter, but by all rights (knowing Rannve and Onmund) I could easily see them having an awkward morning after! Rannve decided to be a little soft in this chapter.**

 **Please enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty Six | Invisibility**

The scholars liked to say that nothing lasts forever, and even Rannve had to admit that in certain cases, they were right.

Onmund's hand was sweeping across her back in idle motions as they lay tangled together in the furs of her bed. Their breathing was deep, their bodies sated, and in the dim flickering light of the many candles, she couldn't image a moment more perfect than this one. The scent of him was everywhere, in every inhalation; a constant reminder of his presence beside her and of the love that she felt even now filling the spaces between them. Granted, there weren't very many spaces to fill.

She felt his chest rise deeply as he breathed in, eyes closed peacefully. Neither of them was asleep, but rather basking in the atmosphere of their union. It was certainly something to bask in, truly. She couldn't remember ever feeling so satisfied. Perhaps it was because it had taken a long time for this to flourish – far longer than she would normally allow, given her impatience. Perhaps it was the denial she had pushed into her heart whenever she considered him in such a way. Perhaps it was merely him and the way he was holding her, with a gentle sort of love, as if he thought that the great Dragonborn, savior among men, was just a delicate wildflower. Whatever it was, she couldn't complain.

No, she couldn't complain at all, until Onmund turned to look at her and quietly wondered, "I'm almost afraid to ask, but…where does this leave us?"

It wasn't a _bad_ question, per se. Anyone would wonder the same. But it did leave a sour taste in her mouth upon hearing it. To be perfectly honest, Rannve hadn't exactly thought that far ahead and she didn't really have an answer. Not that it stopped her from procuring one anyway, though.

She shrugged lazily against him and mumbled, "Simple. I drop you off at the College, and I continue hunting down Alduin. We go our merry ways."

It was the best response she had, and the smartest too. She had only one mission, after all, and it wasn't falling in love. Alduin was her bane and her end, and just because she had finally given in to her feelings for Onmund didn't mean that anything would change. Alduin was still waiting for her, and their battle was a fate she could not hide from.

She felt him stiffen a little bit beneath her and sighed. Propping herself up onto her elbow, Rannve carefully murmured, "Onmund, I'm the – "

"Dragonborn," he finished surly, refusing to look at her. She sighed again.

"You know I can't be with you the way you want," she carefully whispered, voice as gentle as she could make it. It wasn't very hard, really. She wanted to be with him probably as much as _he_ wanted it, and the longing in her voice couldn't be erased.

When he still didn't turn to her, she quietly pleaded, "Look at me, Onmund. Please."

The hasty addition made him quip a smile, though it was humorless and vague as he said, "I don't think I've ever heard you say 'please' before. That might've worked on Urag, you know."

The mention of the aggravating librarian had her scoffing, "I highly doubt it. Damnabled Orc…"

He chuckled, and she was at least pleased to hear that it seemed to contain some traces of amusement, however heavy. Finally he turned his head, capturing her gaze with his crystal eyes. For a brief moment, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, laying amid her pillows and furs, stretched out and bare as the day he was born. His eyes darkened as if he was following the same thought process, but when he spoke next, there were no traces of that desire in his voice.

"I know you think you're going to die," he whispered to her, lifting his hand to trace her cheek as she hovered over him. His eyes followed the path of his knuckle as he brushed it over her mouth. "But I don't agree. You're going to survive."

She stared down at him, wondering how he could be so sure. The adamance of his words threatened to bring tears to her eyes. How she wished he was right! But even then, she did not believe.

Before she could answer, he hoarsely whispered, "If you do survive…Rannve, will you…" he trailed off, looking away from her and swallowing tightly. He didn't know how to ask what he wanted to ask. Was it very selfish of him? Was it too presumptuous? He wasn't even sure if she wanted what he offered. She could have anything and anyone she wanted, so why would she settle for him? He could give her nothing.

He didn't need to finish his sentence, though, for she knew what his next words would be. She saw his struggle and knew what war he was having with himself. He was not the only observant one. She had become rather observant too, since she had met him.

"Yes," she told him, a simple response. But it held such weight that Onmund had to close his eyes, wanting to capture that little word in his memory for as long as he could manage it.

She leaned down and kissed him slowly, urging him until he kissed her back. He sighed against her mouth. And then, with a low hum, he rolled her over into the furs and crawled over her, nestling against her as the fire in his veins began to smolder once more. She didn't argue – just pulled him closer and wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing him into her and sighing out as they began all over again.

And it wasn't until much later, when the night was at its peak and Rannve was sleeping soundly beside him, that Onmund removed himself from the small haven of her bed. He lingered by the edge of it for a while, taking in the sight of her and trying to memorize the peaceful expression of her face. Then, when he lingered just as long as he dared, he quietly stole out of her room to find his robes, a quill, and some parchment.

Once he was dressed, he scrawled out a note, thinking on his words before writing them down, and returned to her room to lay it on the table next to the bed. With it he placed the red nirnroot they had brought up from the depths of Blackreach, which had been tucked into a pocket of his robe and quite forgotten until recently. Then he turned to look at her, leaned down to kiss her, inhaled the scent of her and struggled, for a moment, with the desire to return to bed and press her against his body, but…

Instead, he turned to the door and quietly left, pausing only to take one last glimpse of her before making his way downstairs. And as he slipped out of the front door, he hoped that he was making the right decision.

When she woke up the next morning and saw the note, Rannve smiled shakily and sat on the edge of the mattress for a long time, fingers clasped into her hair as her heart thudded to betray her. For he had made it all too easy for her and she hadn't even asked him to.

He would return to the College himself, taking one of the carriages north, to save her the trip, and she would continue on her own path until Alduin was dealt with. The deal was struck in the lines of ink that scratched into the surface of his letter.

She wasn't sure if she was angry at him or not for leaving in such a way, but…perhaps it was just another slip of fate, for something inside of Rannve was convinced that this was not the end.


	47. Fortify Alchemy

**A/N: In which Quintus Navale obsesses over Red Nirnroot, and he realizes for the first time that the Thane of Windhelm and the Dragonborn are one in the same.**

 **This chapter doesn't really have anything to do with Rannve or Onmund, but I couldn't help but include it. To anyone who has read my story Legerdemain, this is for you ;)**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty Seven | Fortify Alchemy**

The Stone Quarter of Windhelm was bustling when Calder swept through it on a task given to him by his Thane. He frequented the market stands often enough to know the vendors by name, and they sent nods or greetings of acknowledgement as he passed. However, this afternoon he didn't have any errands to make at any of these stalls. No, his current occupation was something of a more…delicate nature. For a bulky warrior like him, that was saying quite a lot, and evidently, he wasn't the only one who thought so.

"Can I help you?" the alchemist, a slight man by the name of Quintus Navale, questioned when Calder blustered into the shop carrying his precious cargo. At least, his Thane seemed to think it was important, though he had no idea what sort of importance a plant could have.

As Quintus's eyes alighted on Calder, he raised an impertinent eyebrow and muttered something about bumbling warriors beneath his breath. Calder didn't seem to hear.

"What do you need, some health potions? Or something to restore your stamina?" Quintus asked, barely casting him another glance as he returned his eyes to a large book laying on the counter which boasted intricate images of plants. He was jotting things down on a scrap of paper beside the tome – a new order to be sent out to the Khajiit caravans as quickly as possible, for he was running low on several items and he had been quite too busy to do it sooner.

Calder seemed subtly offended as he mumbled, "My stamina's just fine, alchemist." And he laid the package he was carrying onto the counter.

Quintus might have been amused by the staunch defense of said stamina, had his curiosity not been awoken by the sight of the package.

"What's this?" he asked, putting his quill down to take a closer look. Calder shrugged, and Quintus cast him a sharp glance as he untied the cord that bound the fabric together, ready to tell him that he really shouldn't transport plants in such a manner for it was damaging to their properties and would lessen their potency once they were brewed into a potion – but the words died on his tongue as he stared down at the red leaves, looking altogether shocked.

"Is this…nirnroot?" he questioned, spluttering as he carefully smoothed the fabric away and traced one of the leaves. It had the distinct shape of a nirnroot, and its root system seemed to be identical, but the entire thing was a deep crimson color that was very different from any nirnroot _he'd_ ever seen, and Quintus had done his fair share of field studies as a lad.

Across the counter, Calder shrugged again and said, "Dunno. I was just told to bring it to you."

Quintus eyed him narrowly. "Oh you were, were you? And do you have any idea how dangerous it is for the plant to be kept in the condition you had it in? Why – you could've choked the roots completely, making it useless!"

The rebuke made Calder shift uncomfortably and shrug. Quintus rolled his eyes. Warriors! They had no _idea_ how delicate and painstaking his craft was! They just bumbled their way through everything without care!

"Well who told you to bring it to me?" he demanded after a moment, quite done with the Nord who stood before him. Honestly, the man looked much too brutish to be interested in alchemy. He was clearly just a messenger. Well he wished that people were more schooled in transporting plants, because it would make his job so much easier!

Calder cleared his throat and responded with a gruff, "The Thane. She said she stumbled upon it on her journeys and heard you were a half decent alchemist."

Quintus didn't look very impressed. "Half decent?" He huffed and muttered, "At least the Thane has enough intelligence to bring it to me, instead of pawning it off."

He leaned forward to study the leaves, marveling at the color and the white veins that he could see just below their surface. How fascinating!

"Where did she find it?" he asked, lifting his quill to write down as much information as he could. He'd need more samples, of course. Many more samples. And – he'd need to find someone who was knowledgeable in nirnroot so that he could arrange for them to be grown and harvested. Why – just think! He could transform alchemy as he knew it! Red nirnroot could change everything – he'd have to do some studies on its effects. It was surely quite similar to the normal variant of the plant, but who knew what other attributes it possessed –

"Blackreach," the Nord said, in an almost off handed manner.

Quintus's thoughts all tumbled away as he stared at the Nord in abject horror.

" _Blackreach?"_ he repeated. By the Eight! Of all the places in Tamriel, it had to be the one place that was half shrouded in legend and impossible to get to. _He_ certainly couldn't go himself – he had a shop to run – and he doubted that any mercenaries would be willing to delve into a place like Blackreach, whose reputation preceded it.

Calder shrugged again and said, "Well, if that's all, I should get going."

Quintus scrambled for his coin purse, but Calder waved him off and headed for the door, leaving the alchemist gaping at the nirnroot behind the counter as he opened the door.

But then –

"Wait!" Quintus exclaimed, and Calder glanced behind him. The alchemist hesitated only a moment before asking, "The Thane – what's her name?"

The Nord seemed honestly shocked that Quintus didn't know already. After all, everyone in the city knew who their Thane was. They were all mighty proud of her, too, and liked to gossip about her every chance they had and at every opportunity. But truly, Quintus had heard of her before – he had nosy customers, after all, who liked to clutter up his shop while they waited in line – but he wasn't all that interested in their gossip or their stories. He had important work to do! Potions didn't brew themselves!

With a baffled expression, Calder gave her name to him and watched curiously as he scribbled it down with an almost manic, obsessed gleam in his eye. With a cautious voice, Calder added, "She just left the city this morning, though. Headed to High Hrothgar."

The news made Quintus frown and ask, "Why in Tamriel would she go _there?"_

He had no idea why the question seemed to amuse Calder, until the Nord laughed and said, "Don't you know that your Thane is the Dragonborn? You should get out more, alchemist. Being stuck in this shop is…unnatural." He shivered, and took his leave before Quintus could respond.

Dragonborn?!

… _Unnatural?_

"I'll have you know that my work is very important!" he exclaimed, but the door was already closing and Quintus just scowled.

The Dragonborn was the Thane of Windhelm? Since when? Scowling even more, Quintus leaned forward and studied the nirnroot with curious eyes. Well. The first moment he could contact this Nord hero, the better. He had a job for her, and he would pay her considerably well for it.


	48. Soul Tear

**A/N: In which Onmund returns to the College.**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty Eight | Soul Tear**

The quest through Blackreach had taken almost two entire months, which was the length of Onmund's suspension from the College. He could scarcely believe that he had been away for so long. It barely felt like a matter of weeks. Time seemed to work differently in Blackreach. Or – perhaps the cause was Rannve herself. He did, after all, have a tendency of forgetting himself around her. In any case, Arch Mage Aren was generous enough to welcome Onmund back a week or so early, despite the grumbling of the Head Librarian when he had heard the news.

He spent his first day on campus tidying his dormitory and going to see his professors to ask them about the work he had missed during his time away. Catching up on two months of assignments, readings, and practical homework would be nearly impossible to do so close to the end of the semester, and so most of them recommended that he just retake the classes and start over.

He was trudging back to the dormitories, thinking about how much coin he had wasted on these classes that he would have to retake, when he ran right into Brelyna.

"Onmund?" she asked, rubbing her shoulder, for he had accidentally knocked into it. They turned and stared at each other. A smile curved over her face. "You're a week early! How was your suspension? Was it awful?" Then, in a rather uncharacteristic gesture, the Dark Elf threw her arms around Onmund's broad shoulders and said, "I missed you, you great oaf!"

Now Nords were a hearty race, wholesome and stubborn, but they did not often go around bandying expressive words to one another or embracing someone in the middle of a public courtyard. Oh, it wasn't so very uncommon to witness, if the Nord in question was feeling passionate about something and allowed those passions to guide his actions. But Onmund felt a small sliver of discomfort so close to his friend, and he carefully extricated himself from her arms so as to not draw out the embrace. As he pulled away from Brelyna, his gaze lingered upon her flushed cheeks, which contained just the smallest hint of a blush. He stared at it in confusion and then remembered that she had asked him a few questions, before, and looked up with an awkward chuckle to respond to them.

"Ah…it wasn't so bad, really. In fact, I learned a lot about my magic. Rannve is right – it's easy to improve your casting when you've got an enemy charging towards you." He chuckled, thinking about how he hadn't really believed her when she'd arrogantly stuck her nose up and said those words. It wasn't that he didn't believe in the practical side of practicing magic – it was just the way she had said it, with her cavalier tone that made it seem like she knew everything.

His eyes slanted over Brelyna's, only to see her smiling tightly at him, eyes narrowed at the mention of Rannve. Onmund cleared his throat, remembering the dislike that was shared between the two women prior to his suspension, and hastily changed the subject.

"Anything new happen while I've been gone?" he asked, kicking at a bit of snow and pulling his robes tighter around him as a harsh gust of wind blew into the courtyard.

Brelyna pursed her mouth a bit, probably aware of his not-so-subtle topic change. She didn't argue about it though, as she shrugged and said, "No. There was a dragon sighted flying over the ice fields a few weeks ago, but other than that, it's been quiet."

The news had him gaping. "A dragon? I missed seeing a dragon!"

He could have bemoaned his bad timing – perhaps he would have, if he'd spent his suspension anywhere else. Seeing a dragon flying through the skies did not quite compare to seeing one delving head-first into a Dwemer ruin, throwing him arrogant smirks every other minute. Still, he had never seen a dragon up close before. He would like the opportunity, despite the fact that a large part of him was half convinced that he would run in the opposite direction if said opportunity ever presented itself.

Brelyna laughed at him and said, "J'zargo is eating lunch. I'm heading there now. Are you coming or not?"

He hesitated for a brief moment, for he had been planning on looking over the enormous list of missed work he had accumulated so he could decide if he should attempt to do it all or not, but the expectant way Brelyna was looking at him made him falter. With a sigh, Onmund replied, "Alright," and followed his friend towards the dining hall.

J'zargo was surprised to see him. When Brelyna went inside with Onmund on her heels, the Khajiit stood up and exclaimed, "You're back already? This one was expecting you to be gone for a while still."

Onmund just shrugged as he sat down at their usual table. There were a few students mingling around the room, but it was a little late to be having lunch.

"The Arch Mage let me return a bit early," Onmund replied as he adjusted his robes and leaned his elbows onto the tabletop. He tried not to think about how it would have taken him longer to arrive, had he not decided to take the final journey up to Winterhold alone. Thinking about the way he had left her made him feel a bit guilty, even though he knew it was for the best. Rannve probably agreed with him, impatient as she was. She no doubt wanted to get a head start on the next leg of her quest, and making a detour to the north just to drop him off as if he was a child wasn't exactly productive.

Brelyna glanced at him and asked, "Where were you, anyway? We went down to the inn to see if you needed anything, but the innkeeper told us you'd went off with that woman and hadn't been seen in weeks."

J'zargo narrowed his eyes at him and agreed, "Yes, it was odd. Tell us where the Nord hero took you."

Perhaps it was the choice of words, but Onmund's cheeks flared up at the question. His mind returned to that night several days before. To claim that _Rannve_ had taken _him_ was an apt description; she'd been far too impatient to give him control. At least, in the beginning.

He cleared his throat, and before his friends could ask why he was blushing, said, "Well, we just…travelled around a bit, that's all." He looked away, not knowing if he should divulge the true nature of their quest or not. After all, if anyone knew that Rannve had an Elder Scroll, she would be sought out by not only powerful leaders who wanted some of the scroll's knowledge, but also thieves, or worse. The vague explanation didn't placate his curious friends, though.

"You traveled around?" Brelyna deadpanned. J'zargo raised his eyebrows (as least, it seemed like he did – it was rather hard to tell what with all the fur), and scoffed in disbelief.

On the defensive, Onmund immediately said, "Yes! We traveled a bit to pass the suspension. We even went to Windhelm for a bit." His friends didn't look very impressed, not that he could blame them. He was, after all, traveling with the _Dragonborn_.

"Oh come on, Onmund," Brelyna rolled her eyes. "everyone knows why you got suspended. You were helping her get those books on the Elder Scrolls, for reasons I just can't figure out, because that was pretty stupid of you – but anyway, do you really think we'd believe that load of garbage?"

He frowned at her, focusing mainly on the way she had inadvertently called him 'stupid', and grumbled, "The books were nonsense anyway. They didn't even help."

J'zargo just snorted and bluntly asked, "So did you find it, then? The scroll?"

The question had Onmund gaping at him, he was so caught off guard by it. His mouth flapped a few times as he tried to think of what he should say in response to such a question, but he could think of nothing. What would Rannve do, if she was being pressed into a corner and asked questions she didn't want to answer? Then, grimacing, he decided that he probably _shouldn't_ do what she would do, because it would no doubt earn him another two month suspension.

"We searched for it," he finally admitted, glowering down at the table and away from his friend's inquisitive eyes. He wouldn't say anything more on the subject, regardless of their badgering. For some reason, it felt wrong to speak to them about his adventures with Rannve. Something about it almost felt like betrayal, even though he knew that was silly.

And yet – as J'zargo began telling him about the latest incident that occurred just days before his arrival, in which a student foolishly tried to create a portal to Oblivion in the center of the courtyard and was immediately expelled for his idiocy, Onmund's gaze shifted to the small table pushed up into the far corner. Months ago, it had been occupied by the woman he had rather unwittingly fallen in love with, though he hadn't known at the time just how far he would fall. The table was empty now, and for some reason, it made the room seem all the larger.

It was a feeling that would follow him around for weeks as he tumbled back into his routine here at the College, all but throwing himself into his work in his attempts to make everything up before the end of the semester. And it was a little amusing, really, how much he missed her. For even though he had only known her for a matter of months, it almost felt as though he was inexplicably tied to her in ways he could not fully comprehend, and that made her absence all the harsher.


	49. Call of Valor

**A/N: In which Arngeir gives Rannve some advice, and she decides to take it.**

 **Cake-san: Glad you're enjoying it! It's definitely a slow start, but I'm happy you stuck around to read more :) It's been a fun story to write**

* * *

 **Chapter Forty Nine | Call of Vaor**

Even inside the walls of High Hrothgar, it was freezing. Rannve pulled her fur cloak tighter around her body as she shut the door that led to the courtyard and shook off the snow from her boots. Her journey up the peak of the mountain had been lengthy, made all the more so by the events that had taken place upon unrolling the Elder Scroll and witnessing the first-hand account of what had happened in that very spot centuries before. If she wasn't utterly annoyed at the fact that Alduin had swept down moments after the scene had played out, falling from the sky as if he had sensed the shift in the time continuum, then Rannve would say that the entire experience had been incredible.

The heroes of old had fought Alduin until their last breath, tempering the power of the Voice to bring Alduin to earth in a single Shout – the very same Shout that Rannve herself had been searching for, to do the very same thing. She had gotten what she'd come for. She had fulfilled one part of this long and treacherous quest. She almost wished she hadn't been so successful, for now there was no reason that she could give to stop the rest of it from tumbling forward, pressing her to action and not giving her a moment's rest.

Sighing, Rannve stepped through the halls of High Hrothgar, stopping briefly to warm her hands by a brazier. As she rubbed her frozen fingers together, she silently reveled in the warmth that the flames provided. She hadn't felt this warm since – him.

With an aggravated grunt, Rannve pulled her hands back and continued on, but she couldn't as easily press back the thought of Onmund as he once again invaded her mind. Even when she did her best to think on other things, more important things, the memories of that night lingered always on the edges of her mind, like a phantom caress that left her wanting.

She sighed and turned the corner, stepping down the stone stairs that led to the sleeping quarters of the Greybeards. Her search for Arngeir was successful when she found him sitting on one of the stone chairs with a book in his lap.

He looked up at her approach and solemnly said, "Ah, Dragonborn. You have returned from the mountaintop. What did you discover?"

There was a note of judgement in his voice that made her huff. It was no secret that the Greybeards did not agree with her quest to learn the Dragonrend Shout in order to defeat Alduin. They believed in prophecy only; that if she was meant to defeat Alduin and survive to tell the tale, she would do so simply because it would be her fate. Conversely, if she died in the process, then such would also be her fate, and in either instance, they were agreeable with the tides of destiny. But she wasn't. It was her life, after all, and if learning an apparently evil Shout would save her, then so be it. She had never claimed to be anything but selfish. In fact a part of her soul reveled in it.

The judgement in Arngeir's tone was not just the result of his disapproval of her selfishness, though. She knew that a large portion of it was due to her newfound connection to the Blades. The animosity between the two groups was overpowering and she wanted nothing to do with it. She belonged neither to the Greybeards nor the Blades, and had little patience for their continuous enmity and unending grudges.

Rannve didn't remark on Arngeir's tone. Instead she just crossed her arms and responded, "I've learned the Dragonrend Shout."

She was certain that Arngeir already knew this. The fierce battle she had only just fought with Alduin had certainly not been overlooked. High Hrothgar was close enough to the peak to be able to hear the Shouts that were administered on both sides. The Greybeards were ever watchful on their mountain, and their knowledge of the Dragon Tongue was their lifelong pursuit.

She wasn't surprised, then, when Arngeir nodded and said, "Yes, I know. We heard your battle from these halls. Your Shouts were loud and powerful, Dragonborn, as were Alduin's."

Mention of his name made Rannve frown. Arngeir studied the expression for a long moment before remarking, "Your quest to learn this Shout has been successful, and yet something troubles you."

Rannve looked at him and murmured haltingly, "I am going to my death. Why wouldn't I be troubled?"

Silence cascaded around them, broken only by the wind that rattled the panes and the crackle of the constantly burning fires in their braziers. Arngeir looked at her closely for several long moments, observing the slump of her shoulders and the downward cast of her eyes. The Dragonborn was an impatient creature. It was his opinion that she rushed into things without thinking of their consequences. Her drive to learn the Dragonrend Shout was but one example of this. She was young and tempestuous to a reckless extent. But she was also brave – brave enough to hold up the weight of the prophecy that sat heavily upon her shoulders.

He put his book to the side and stood up, robes rustling as he straightened out. Hands clasped before him, Arngeir eyed the woman and slowly said, "Do you not have others to aide you in your time of need, Dragonborn? Warriors who might share this burden with you?"

The question made Rannve scoff. "Share the burden? _I_ am the Dragonborn – the prophesied hero. Only I can defeat Alduin."

But Arngeir merely chuckled at her and shook his head. "You take your prophecy too literally, Dragonborn. Fate is often far less strict. Your blow will bring Alduin's death, but where in the prophecy does is say that you will fight the World-Eater alone?"

She looked up at him with raised eyebrows, having never considered his words before this moment. Truthfully, she had always assumed that she would have to fight and kill Alduin single-handedly; a feat that she doubted she could accomplish. And yet Arngeir seemed to think very differently. She stared at him hard, and he chuckled once more.

"I do not agree with your current path. Using Dragonrend could prove far more dangerous than you yet realize. However, I would also wish that you have a long life. Collect your friends, Dragonborn – that is my advice." And with that, Arngeir nodded his head to her and took his leave, shuffling out of the hall. As for Rannve, she just hummed lowly to herself and clenched her cloak between her cold fingers, sitting down in the chair that Arngeir had occupied only minutes before.

Most of her 'friends' were nobles whose wits were far sharper than their swords. She went out of her way to befriend Thanes and Jarls because of the power and prestige it would give her. Yet now she wished that she had turned her attention to more loyal companions, for she could think of no one at all who might be willing to help her in her cause.

There was only one man who might consider going on an adventure of this magnitude with her, and he was not a warrior at all. But – who said that warriors were the only ones who would be of assistance? She hadn't trusted magic very much before, but her viewpoints had changed very drastically in a short amount of time. Perhaps a mage was just what she needed…

How quickly her vows fell away! For – she had sworn to herself that she would not step foot at the College of Winterhold until Alduin was dead, yet that was exactly where her path seemed to lead her.


	50. Unrelenting Force

**A/N: In which Rannve takes back what is hers.**

 **Here is the final chapter of the story. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed! I had a lot of fun writing Onmund and Rannve's adventure, and I hope you've all enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed putting it all together.**

 **Perhaps some day in the future, I'll revisit Skyrim and write new stories for other characters in that world. In the mean time, though, please enjoy this final update on Arcanium!**

* * *

 **Chapter Fifty | Unrelenting Force**

It was a particularly snowy day when he next saw her. There had been a great snowstorm the night before, and the professors were busy clearing pathways with their magic, using mild fire spells to melt the snow and ice. The storm itself had relented, the wind dying down some hours before, but it was still flurrying gently. Onmund had spent the morning in the library under the watchful eye of Urag, who had been giving him dark glowers ever since his return to the campus some weeks prior. The fierce expression might had made him scurry off, if he had been on the receiving end of it before his adventure into Blackreach. But, as it so happened, it wasn't only Onmund's magic that had changed since his journeys. His confidence had also been altered, accommodating a new version of him that many people took note of.

He had spent the last few weeks knee deep in assignments. Outside of class, he'd spend hours in the library or in one of the corners of the Hall of Elements, books strewn over his table and fingers stained with ink. His professors had been very impressed with his fortitude – as well as his apparent increase in skill. Toldir had even taken him aside one day after his Practical Alteration class and had complimented him on his newfound abilities. It had been great praise, for Tolfdir rarely ever singled out a student, for good or bad.

Anyway – it was snowing rather incessantly that morning, but Onmund was not the type of Nord who'd let a little snow get in his way. He wasn't the only one, either.

He was just leaving the Hall of Elements, intent on returning to his dorm to gather a few other textbooks and some new parchment. He wanted to get started on a few of the assignments that Faralda had given him when he inquired into his Elemental Destruction class. He was just walking around the Eye of Magnus when his path was interrupted.

"Onmund, there you are! I was looking all over for you!" Colette said, stepping up to him with her arms laden with heavy looking books. She was carrying so many that he could barely see her face above the top of her pile.

Slightly alarmed, Onmund took several of the tomes from her stack as he said, "Professor! Uh…did you need something? These look heavy."

He balanced a few of them in his forearms, relieving her of most of the load. The slight woman gave him a grateful look and said in a fidgety voice, "I wanted you to read through these – at your convenience, of course – I know you have quite a lot of work to do before the end of the semester. But – oh, I couldn't resist, you know. You're such a good student! You take to Restoration magic so effortlessly!" Then, glancing furtively around to see if anyone was listening, Colette leaned in and told him, "You're my favorite student, you know. You're going to go far, my dear."

He was slightly dumbfounded at this. He had never been very talented in Restoration magic. That is, he always knew the fundamentals of it. He could recite with exact precision the necessary steps it took to cast a healing spell. That said, he had never excelled at the actual casting part until he was forced to learn on his adventure with Rannve.

This sort of situation was fairly common, though. He had noticed that many of his professors had spoken with him about his improvements. Besides Toldir's rather unexpected compliment, Faralda had also given him a number of impressed looks when they practiced casting in her classes. Even Drevis, who very rarely bothered speaking to students outside of his lectures, had given him a passing remark regarding his improvement in his Illusion classes.

It was strange as well as pleasant to hear that his efforts have been noticed. It also caused something of a rift to form between him and his friends. J'zargo had outright challenged him to a Destruction demonstration several times now, and Brelyna had only rolled her eyes at him and told him that he needed to stop sucking up to the professors. That really wasn't what he was doing though! He had no control over what they said or didn't say, and besides, he was only trying to finish up the semester without failing all of his classes!

Having little idea as to what to say to Colette, who was beaming at him in an almost maternal way that made him a little bit uncomfortable, Onmund cleared his throat and awkwardly said, "Er – I will. Thank you."

Colette's grin widened, and she quickly passed over the remaining books with an eager smile. "Wonderful! I've also decided, since you've been working so hard, that I'll allow you to bypass the written exam this year. A practical exam will do just fine, seeing how far you've come since you've returned from your suspension."

She paused to take a breath, and Onmund quickly cut in with an adamant, "No, I'll take the written and the practical exams just like everyone else. I don't want special treatment, Professor."

Talos, that would be so embarrassing! Brelyna's snarky comments on sucking up to the professors would only increase tenfold if she heard that Colette had let him skip the written test. Besides, he was more than prepared to take it. In between catching up on his assignments, he was making sure to study for the final exams that were fast approaching. There was little point in doing all his catch-up work if he was going to fail the last major test, after all.

If anything, his refusal of her offer only seemed to make Colette smile wider, if possible, as if she was very proud of him for taking the higher road. She patted him on the shoulder with a quick nod that reminded him of a bird, and said, "You're so responsible, Onmund! I wish all my students would apply themselves like you do."

He was starting to feel quite awkward being on the receiving end of her praise. Students were starting to glance over at them and he hated being noticed. That was one aspect of his character that had remained staunchly unchanged.

Shuffling towards the exit, Onmund cleared his throat and said, "If that's all, Professor, I really should be getting back to work. I have a lot to do – "

She clapped her hands together with a proud beam, "Yes, of course you do! Please return those books when you're done reading them, my dear. I'm quite sure you'll find them very fascinating. Now I'll let you go and I'll see you later today in class."

She turned and walked away with a swish of her robes, darting around students in her usual quick, fidgeting manner and leaving Onmund standing in the center of the Hall of Elements with his arms full of heavy books. He sighed and began to trudge towards the door, hoping that he wouldn't drop any of them on his way to his dormitory. It was rather unexpected that Colette would suggest reading material outside of her classes, but then again, a lot of professors had been acting in rather unexpected ways lately, and he couldn't claim to be overly surprised by it, no matter how much it always took him off guard.

He was just stepping out of the Hall and into the lobby of the building when he was taken off guard yet again. But this time, it wasn't by a professor or even another student, and it had nothing to do with his classes or his studies at all. In fact, the voice that spoke wasn't even from this cold northern world of magic and spells; it was from a world of burnished steel and roaring beasts that took to the skies, and when he heard it, he nearly dropped his pile of borrowed books in shock.

"Consorting with the professors these days, are you? How very scandalous of you, Onmund," Rannve drawled as she leaned casually against the wall that led to the Arcanaeaum, as if she had never left. A wide, arrogant grin had captured her face, and it only grew wider when Onmund turned to her with shocked eyes and tried to steady the tall stack of books that were threatening to topple over from his surprise.

He stared at her for a long moment as if unsure if she was actually there, and Rannve smirked, "I hear you've been very productive since you're return. The Arch Mage wouldn't stop singing your praises. It made me a little nauseous actually."

He blinked at her, still caught up in his long stare, before finally deciding that even his over-active imagine couldn't conjure this dialogue, and he spluttered, "What are you doing here?" Then, realizing that he sounded a bit rude, he blushed and said, "I mean – not that I'm not happy to see you of course, but I thought you'd be halfway across Skyrim by now."

Happy was an understatement. His eyes scoured over her face, heart thudding heavily in his chest at her sudden appearance. As his shock began to dwindle down, a familiar fire took its place, and he realized just how much he had missed that arrogant, cavalier tone. It had only been a couple of weeks, and yet suddenly it felt like an age since he last saw her.

Rannve snorted and pushed off from the wall. "Oh I _was_ halfway across Skyrim. I was at High Hrothgar for a while, then Whiterun, and now I'm here."

He stared at her again, and furrowed his brow in confusion. "Yes, well, that's all fine, but _what_ are you doing here?"

After all, it wasn't every day that the Dragonborn herself came to the College of Winterhold. He seemed to recall that she didn't think very highly of mages. Then again, he failed to account for the fact that she _did_ think very highly of him.

Rannve stared at Onmund with callous affection permeating from her eyes. It was such a sudden, inexplicit emotion that he couldn't bring himself to look away, even when she went and ruined the moment by saying, "I'm going to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach and I've come to ask if you'd like to be the bait."

Onmund's eyebrows shot straight up. Had she really just said what he thought she'd said? More importantly, why was he so surprised?

When his mouth only flapped silently at her, Rannve smirked and waved a hand, breezily explaining, "It's just that dragons like to catch people between their claws and toss them around when they're angry, and you're very talented at standing around and looking unassuming."

This time, when he gaped at her, there was just a touch of humor in his eyes. "I do believe you just insulted me," he said, finally finding his voice.

Rannve only laughed, eyes bright as she watched him. In a smiling voice, she murmured, "So will you?"

Onmund hesitated, looking down at the pile of books in his arms, then over at the students still at work in the Hall of the Elements. A few of them looked over at them, telling Onmund that Rannve's reappearance had been noticed, and rumors would be quick to sweep through the tiny College as to her reasons. He looked back at Rannve's expectant expression and sighed.

His silence must have been relatively telling, for Rannve's smile slid from her face. She sighed too, and said, "I told you I spoke with the Arch Mage. I didn't come here thoughtlessly." She grumbled something beneath her breath and added, "There's this thing students apparently do called 'internships'. He told me that he'd give you some credits for it. Or something." She shrugged, for the whole aspect rather confused her, especially whatever those credits were, and just turned her eyes to Onmund hoping that she had explained it all well enough.

Apparently, she had, for though Onmund's expression was utterly shocked, understanding dawned in his eyes. It was quickly doused with a frown when he said, "But my classes…I've nearly caught up on the work I missed before. I have to stay until – "

Rannve waved a hand and drawled, "The Arch Mage is letting you take all your final exams before the other students. He seems to think that you'll pass your classes with flying colors." She rolled her eyes and added, "He talked my damned ear off while he was mooning over you. Why in Oblivion do all the professors seem to be worshipping the ground you walk on?"

The edge of perturbance in her voice made Onmund grin at her as he sarcastically wondered, "Why, does it make you jealous?"

Rannve opened her mouth to snap at him, but then she seemed to think differently, and lowly told him, "I'm very possessive, Onmund."

He swallowed tightly at the tone of her voice, which happened to be sending shivers down his spine at that very moment, and cleared his throat. But – he didn't look away from her. It was as if their eyes were locked together in a dance that their bodies had not yet joined, orbiting the other but not intersecting. Onmund clenched his fingers around the stack of books, wishing he didn't have to carry their burden at this moment. There was, after all, only one thig he truly wanted to do.

"So what do you think?" Rannve asked, her voice was rough and demanding, clearly impatient to hear his response and maybe even a little nervous, too. Her emotions were clear as day upon her face. It was something that Onmund rather relished in.

He stared at her for a lengthy moment, weighing her offer against the life he had reforged at the College in the last few weeks. It was been a busy time full of studying and homework, and even though he felt that he had come very far in learning more about the technical aspects of magic, he had felt a bit of a loss since returning here. Casting actual spells had become rather tedious within the confinement of this place, where safety was more important. He would no doubt come even farther along in his studies if he accepted Rannve's offer.

But – that aside, he had _missed_ her. Far more than he had expected. Her cavalier personality was addicting, as was the way she was looking at him now, as if she wanted nothing more than to sweep him into her arms and never let him go. It did more than simply rally his confidence; it also made his decision rattle through his mind with stark clarity.

In less than a second, the pile of books in his arms fell to the floor in a loud clatter. Tomes dropped in a mess upon the stone, their spines at odd angles that went entirely disregarded as Onmund stepped over them. His focus was only on her, and when he reached her, Onmund did not hesitate as he pulled her into a kiss that seemed to shock her into silence. Now _that_ was a rare thing.

Yet even as he silenced her with his mouth, Rannve responded to him all the same, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing their bodies together as their lips met. One of his hands cupped her face while the other grasped her hip, thumbing over the steel plates of armor that protected her. He hovered over her shorter stature, lips spinning with an almost wild, fervent passion that was equally matched by her. It was almost as if the absence of the last few weeks had gone straight to their heads, muddling their sensibilities completely as they stood in the foyer of the Hall of Elements amidst whispering students who ogled at the duo with unabashed amazement.

At least, until a disgruntled and slightly disgusted voice suddenly barked, "What are you two _doing?"_

The familiar voice immediately had Rannve pulling back with a wide, callous smirk etched firmly over her lips – lips that were prettily bruised from Onmund's rather uncharacteristic kiss. When they looked over at where Urag was standing in the entrance to the library, only a few feet away, they both had to bit their laughter back lest they incur the wrath of the fearsome librarian.

"What does it look like we're doing?" Rannve demanded, clenching the fabric of Onmund's robes as she speared Urag with a challenging look.

The Orc grimaced at her, looking none to pleased to see her again, and gruffly snarked, "It looks like you're defiling my books. _Again."_

Onmund glanced down at the pile of books on the floor, all in various states of disarray, and coughed a bit. For once, the Orc had a point. Not that Rannve was about to agree with him.

She snickered and drawled, "Oh trust me, Orc, if I truly wanted to defile those books, you would _never_ want them back in your precious library again." She smirked with vicious intent and Onmund felt his cheeks blaze at the inuendo of her words. Granted, he had little idea into how she would achieve such a thing, but her tone steered him down a path that was full of insinuation.

Urag, it seemed, was utterly horrified at the notion. Spluttering in obvious disgust, the Orc growled, "What are you doing here, anyway? Damned Nord! I thought I got rid of you!"

Rannve glanced over at Onmund's blushing face and bit her lip in amusement. His eyes darted down to her mouth. The desire in his gaze was so apparent that even Urag noticed, and he grunted in disgust as he crossed his arms and awaited his answer.

And Rannve, who always had an answer to _everything_ , did not disappoint. She glanced over at the librarian and snarked, "You didn't actually think I'd let you off the hook for hording the books I needed, did you?"

The words made Urag splutter, "Hording?! I did no such thing!"

Rannve just rolled her eyes. As much as she enjoyed aggravating Urag, she was just a little preoccupied from the way Onmund was still pressed against her, staring down at her as if he was seconds from kissing her again.

Still – she couldn't resist getting in one more jab. With an arrogant quirk of her mouth, Rannve glanced over at Urag and claimed, "It doesn't matter how much of a book-horder you are, Orc. I found what I was looking for without your help."

This time, the insinuation that was delivered between the tones of her words had the librarian gaping out a shocked, "Malacath's Mercy, are you saying you actually _found_ an Elder Scroll?"

Rannve, though, was quite finished with this conversation. She turned back to Onmund and murmured, "So will you be my bait or not?"

He pursed his lips, containing his chuckle as he rolled his eyes at her, and said, "You have a really backwards way of doing this, you know."

He watched her smile up at him and felt his heart falter a bit in his chest, for he was quite sure in that moment that nothing in the world was lovelier. Rannve chuckled and responded, "Oh please. I wasn't the one who kissed the _Dragonborn_ in front of the entire school. I think you did that on purpose, Onmund. Looking for a little bit of fame, are you?"

It was almost funny how he had even missed her arrogance – almost.

With a huff, Onmund quipped, "I did not do that on purpose!" Then, at the raised eyebrow she sent him, he grudgingly muttered, "Well it wasn't my primary reason."

She laughed at him and leaned closer, but their would-be kiss was quite interrupted when Urag, who was watching them with no shortage of revulsion, suddenly barked, "Answer my question, Nord! Did you find a Scroll or not?"

Rannve sighed against Onmund's mouth and turned to look at the librarian.

"Why, would you like me to bring it to you for your collection?" she asked, sounding oddly sweet, as if she had forgiven Urag of all his past transgression against her. Onmund raised an eyebrow at her, but Rannve just smile charmingly at Urag and waited.

The Orc seemed taken aback by the offer, but he was very quick to jump up and say, "The College would be an ideal place to host an Elder Scroll. It's a place of learning and prestige – "

Rannve's smile turned downright predatory as she blinked over at the librarian with an evil smirk. Urag cut himself off immediately upon seeing it and snarled at her (quite a frightful sound), but Rannve only scoffed and drawled, "Perhaps if you hadn't been such an arse to me when I needed your help, I would let you borrow it."

Urag's mouth flapped open, and then he growled furiously, _"Borrow it?!_ Elder Scrolls are artifacts, you ingrate! You can't keep it all to yourself – "

She gave him a dark glower and interrupted with a short, "Why not? It's what _you_ do, after all." Then, with a shrug, she added, "I learned by example, really. You can only blame yourself."

Then, snickering a bit to herself, Rannve hooked an arm around Onmund's and pulled him towards the great doors of the Hall. She turned before opening them to look back at Urag, whose face was beginning to turn a deep purple from his own anger. It didn't stop Rannve from casting a callous glance at the books that were strewn over the floor and smirking, "You might want to clean that up, Orc. It would reflect very poorly on you if anyone saw you standing around all these poor books. What would people think of their Head Librarian then?"

Then, snickering loudly, Rannve pulled Onmund out of the door just as Urag exploded into furious yells that no doubt sent the remaining students into a frenzy in order to get away from his anger.

"You shouldn't have done that, Rannve – " Onmund fretted, half amused but mostly slightly afraid for his life. Urag was a force to be reckoned with, after all.

Rannve, though, looked as unconcerned as ever as she pulled Onmund to a stop at the center of the courtyard. She didn't even bother responding to him. At least, not with words.

She tugged him around to look at her and clasped her hands on either side of his face, leaning in to capture his mouth with hers unapologetically. And Onmund, despite his current hesitance regarding the wayward Head Librarian and the potential repurcussions that might come as a result of Rannve's prodding, well…

Could he truly be blamed for sinking into her kiss without complaint? She was, after all, the Dragonborn – and the woman he had fallen helpless, irrevocably, and bafflingly in love with.

 **The End**


End file.
